WILD WICKLOW HILLS

Oare sunt capabile nenorocirile noi să alunge amintirile vechilor nenorociri? Judecând după ce s-a întâmplat secol după secol s-ar părea că da. În fața atrocităților ce se petrec acum în zonele în care bântuie războiul într-o formă sau alta, clasică sau sub formă de atentate, lecțiile celui de al doilea război mondial tind să fie alungate din memoria colectivă.

La rândul lui cel de-al doilea război mondial părea să estompeze durerile primului război mondial, încât s-a ajuns să se vorbească despre ”Războiul uitat”.

Am găsit într-o postare de pe face book un tablou și o poezie care vorbeau despre nostalgia pe care o simțea la gândul meleagurilor natale un soldat irlandez care a participat la primul război mondial, a fost rănit la un picior, trimis acasă și rechemat pe front ca să ucidă, să rănească să măcelărească alți oameni, milioane de victime ale acelui război, și numai Dumnezeu știe pentru ce...

În timpul acesta în pașnicele coline din Wicklow cânta pițigoiul...

Google mi-a arătat că e vorba de un cântec scris și compus de Reg Keating and Owl Records. 

https://youtu.be/nJSNiEIWC-4

Tabloul este The Wild Wicklow Hills, by Evgeniya Vlasova, aka Jenny Rainbow.

http://fineartamerica.com/profiles/jenny-rainbow.html  

WILD WICKLOW HILLS

When I was nineteen, they sent me aboard,
A big ship that took me to France.
The crash of a shell that half blew me to hell
Took a leg off for fear I might dance.
I lay in the mud that was crimson with blood
And was studded with shrapnel and shell, bloody hell,
The pain in my thigh, it just darkened my sky
And I dreamt of the wild Wicklow hills.

For Wicklow was peaceful that time of the year,
The hush through her heather was all you could hear.
In her hills and her valleys, no anguish or fear,
There's peace on the wild Wicklow hills

They gave me a crutch and they sent me back home,
I pitied the men left behind.
For those not soon dead, they were numbered instead
As crippled, as maimed or as blind.
At Charring Cross Station, they turned round the train,
Took more human fodder to war.
They hadn't a chance on the green fields of France
The Somme, it ran red with their gore.
The war to end war, it was counted in cost,
Twenty eight million missing or dead
But rather than end it, the second time round
We just doubled the numbers instead.
We've killed and we've maimed and we've slaughtered again
And lord I just don't know what for.
There's flies in the eyes of a child as he cries,
Indifference goes on evermore.

And Wicklow's still peaceful this time of the year,
The hush through the heather is all you can hear.
In her hills and her valleys, no anguish or fear,
There's peace on the wild Wicklow hills, Oh Lord
There's peace on the wild Wicklow hills.