DULCE ET DECORUM EST
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines
that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! – An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering,
choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent(14) for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Doblegats sota les borses com a vells captaires,
xocant els genolls i tossint com a velles, maleïm a través del llot
fins a donar-li l’esquena a les condemnades bengales
i endegar l’arrossec envers un descans remot.
Els homes marxaven dormits. Molts ja sense botes
coixejaven calçats de sang. Tots patètics, cecs tots,
embriacs de cansament, sords fins i tot a les xiulades
de projectils decebuts que queien més enrere.
Gas! Gas! De pressa, nois! En un èxtasi de malaptesa,
ens calem maldestres cascs just a temps;
però algun seguia demanant ajut a crits ensopegant
indecís com un home cremant en flames o calç viva.
Borrós després dels vidres entelats i a través d’aquella verda llum espessa,
com enfonsat en una mar verda, vaig veure’l ofegar-se.
En tots els somnis, davant la meua vista indefensa,
s’abalança sobre mi, s’ennuega, s’ofega, s’apaga.
Si en algun somni asfixiant també poguessis seguir a peu
la carreta on el llençàrem
I veure com retorçava els ulls blancs en la cara,
Una cara penjant, com un diable fart del pecat;
Si poguessis sentir, a cada tomb, la sang
vomitada per pulmons d’escuma corromputs,
Obscè com el càncer, amarg com a pus
de vils nafres incurables en llengües innocents,–
Amic meu, no contaries amb tant d’entusiasme
als nens que cremen ansiosos de glòria
aquesta vella mentida: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
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