I was reminded this evening, when watching news of Zimbabwe edging closer
and closer to civil war, of a poem my father pointed me at years ago.
This was in the early 70's when Northern Ireland was in the middle of
a what would become a 30 year civil war (in every aspect but name) and
I was having problems with the concepts of of violence ever being "right",
death, war and patriotism.
I hope that common sense prevails in Zimbabwe and a resolution is found
that does not lead down the road to destruction.
A sad but poetic end to the week.
An Irish Airman Foresees his death, WB Yeats
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.