Robert W. Service, 'Carry On'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Carry On

It's easy to fight when everything's right,
And you're mad with the thrill and the glory;
It's easy to cheer when victory's near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.
It's a different song when everything's wrong,
When you're feeling infernally mortal;
When it's ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:

Carry on! Carry on!
There isn't much punch in your blow.
You're glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You're muddy and bloody, but never you mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You haven't the ghost of a show.
It's looking like death, but while you've a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life
It's easy to fight when you're winning;
It's easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, there's the man of God's choosing;
The man who can fight to Heaven's own height
Is the man who can fight when he's losing.

Carry on! Carry on!
Things never were looming so black.
But show that you haven't a cowardly streak,
And though you're unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
It's looking like hell, but -- you never can tell:
Carry on, old man! Carry on!

There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt,
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labour with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, there's the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in your mission, greet life with a cheer;
There's big work to do, and that's why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry:
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!

By Robert W. Service

Misael Mesina Paranial, 'At The Terminal'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

At The Terminal

Six p.m., and the evening
traffic homeward has gone amok.
The opening salvo: an explosion

throwing rush hour into disarray,
sudden rain of shrapnel seeking
solace in warm bodies.

Days ago, the city turned out
to see who kisses the longest.
Today, kisses seemed superfluous

among the burnt dead, caught unaware
or the shell-shocked, wounded
in the aftermath of bombs

exploding everywhere:
a loaded bus, a parked tricycle,
a lone package outside a food stall.

Pressed for sound bites,
our Man in Uniform swallows
his intel reports and concedes,

“Well, you know, it’s very difficult
to safeguard every place.”
And as if to punctuate his remarks

the ruined legs of a boy
dangle out from a rescuer’s arms
lifeless, useless.

By Misael Mesina Paranial