Build up to promos
>2005-09-29 - 8:46 p.m.
I've never mugged as hard as I have in my entire life. I really really want to do S papers, especially for lit and econs, but my grade for terms was only a C, though now I'm more attracted to lit than to econs.
Teachers are dropping hints freely as though it were the Blitz. I'm thankful I didn't skip school. So tired... but my mind is always renewed in God's presence :)
I seriously hope that there'll be praise and worship during chapel on Monday, but I highly doubt it since the entire student population is facing exams. Ironically, for quite some time, I always detested chapel. It was so dead, and the musicians did not practise as much as the worship teams in church, so, of couse, the contrast in quality was stark. But one day before chapel started I realised (Or was it God nudging me? Honestly, I'm not that tuned to God's voice now.) that God is the same everywhere. It doesn't matter that the singing is out of tune, or that the band doesn't play in harmony. What matters is that God's presence is there. That's all that matters.
I've been doing nothing but war lit for the past few days. Gotta work on my EoM today though. It's due tomorrow.
I love war poems.
Here's a beautiful piece by Siegfried Sassoon (1886-1967)
The Death-Bed
He drowsed and was aware of silence heaped
Round him, unshaken as the steadfast walls;
Aqueous like floating rays of amber light,
Soaring and quivering in the wings of sleep.
Silence and safety; and his mortal shore
Lipped by the inward, moonless waves of death.
Someone was holding water to his mouth.
He swallowed, unresisting; moaned and dropped
Through crimson gloom to darkness; and forgot
The opiate throb and ache that was his wound.
Water—calm, sliding green above the weir.
Water—a sky-lit alley for his boat,
Bird- voiced, and bordered with reflected flowers
And shaken hues of summer; drifting down,
He dipped contented oars, and sighed, and slept.
Night, with a gust of wind, was in the ward,
Blowing the curtain to a glimmering curve.
Night. He was blind; he could not see the stars
Glinting among the wraiths of wandering cloud;
Queer blots of colour, purple, scarlet, green,
Flickered and faded in his drowning eyes.
Rain—he could hear it rustling through the dark;
Fragrance and passionless music woven as one;
Warm rain on drooping roses; pattering showers
That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps
Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace,
Gently and slowly washing life away.
He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain
Leapt like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore
His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.
But someone was beside him; soon he lay
Shuddering because that evil thing had passed.
And death, who'd stepped toward him, paused and stared.
Light many lamps and gather round his bed.
Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.
Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.
He's young; he hated War; how should he die
When cruel old campaigners win safe through?
But death replied: 'I choose him.' So he went,
And there was silence in the summer night;
Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.
Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.