Russell Binns - Irish - poem - Wilfred Owen - World War 1
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EnglishVoice Age
Senior (55+)Accents
Irish (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
and some for doom juice. But he, Wilfred Owen. What passing bells for these who dies cattle, Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles rapid rattle can patter out their hasty or ISMs. No marker is no for them. No prayers, no bells nor any voice of morning save the choir's the shrill, demented choirs of whaling shells and bugles calling for them from sad. Show IRS what candles maybe held to speed them all, not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes shall shine the holy glimmers of good byes. The pallor of girls Bro's shall be their poll. They're flowers, the tenderness of patient minds and each slow dusk a drawing down of blinds.