Despite the heights they reached, aircraft ceilings and higher
They must have felt low, dispirited
Unwillingly parachuted from some love affair
Its shrapnel still burning.
So many better things to do… like living.
Yet not one of them wanted to die
Holding onto good luck charm
Superstitious routine firmly in place
Some tenderly retained token… never left behind
Something always touched or worn.
But no premonition foretold finality, only coincidence
And never saved by prayer nor fancy, only by survival.
Yet not one of them wanted to die
Not how they died: young, yearning, wasted in futility.
Fear, terror, resentment, blazing anger
As plane, existence, fell apart… disintegrated
Or fell in slow plummet
Dice, cards, roulette wheel, straws, falling with them:
Tracer dice, cannon shell Russian roulette,
ME109 card cut, engine failure short straw;
Deadliest disinterested games off chance
All so random, so happenstance and indifferent.
Do not believe those lies of instantaneous
‘It was quick.’ ‘They never felt a thing.’
All that was lively… burning.
All that was loving… utterly alone.
All that was vital… shadow to insanity.
And in the wreckage, what enduring remains,
What vulnerable human ruins refusing to be frail?
Submitted to Aircrew Remembered by David Lockyer. David holds the copyright and permission must be sought to reprint, thank you.
At the going down of the sun, and in the morning we will remember
them. - Laurence
Binyon
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and should not be used without prior permission.
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Last Modified: 26 May 2014, 08:07 •