Lest We Forget
Left right, left right, left right, left: So goes the rhythmic advance of Fascism in Europe and the global West. Democracy is losing ground, its lessons from the last world war forgotten — lying mortally wounded on the amnesiac scrap heap of history.
As we march into the future, we must remember the past to safeguard the freedoms forged from the lives and blood of our sacrificed dead upon the crucible of war. Are they like Golems, their words silent whispers upon the lips of Chronos?
The ghosts of the past reach out from the grave, gnawing at our heels, imploring us not to forget the liberties they fought and died for and to step back from the precipice lest we dash ourselves upon the rocks of hate and authoritarianism below.
What was their purpose, their meaning in life? Was it all in vain? Some perverse zero-sum game? It pains me to witness their shattered lives subjected to such wanton disrespect, their graves defecated upon by malefic, concupiscent wraiths taunting us with twisted nationalistic desires.
Is our zeitgeist a metaphorical groundhog doomed to follow the same cycle ad infinitum? Are we prisoners imprisoned in a perverted cyclic continuum — condemned to repeat the same fate over and over as some sort of twisted punishment? Are we stuck in Ouroboro’s proverbial grasp? Is time our cruel warden or our emancipator?
Lest we forget those who sacrificed for the freedoms many enjoy today. An ode to those who fought fascism.
Eternal Echoes
Left right, left right, a rhythmic march,
Fascism’s drumbeat, shadows on the arch.
Democracy’s wounded, forgotten lore,
On history’s scrap heap, amnesia’s core.
Golems stir, their whispers soft,
Chronos holds their words aloft.
Silent cries of wars once fought,
Sacrifices made — meanings sought.
Ghosts of valor gnaw at our heels,
Imploring remembrance, it's pain they feel.
Step back from hate’s edge, remember our fate,
Reflect on your history before it is too late
Graves of the fallen, a desecrated shrine,
Twisted wraiths with desires malign.
Is this the fate, a cycle we bind,
In the grip of Ouroboros, time’s serpentine.
What purpose held in lives now past,
Was their struggle for freedom meant to last?
Or a cruel jest, a zero-sum game,
Lives lost in vain, a historic shame.
Groundhog’s shadow, looping the same,
Caught in a dance, an endless frame.
Time as our warden, a prison of fate,
Can we break free — before it’s too late?
Left right, left right, hear echo’s refrain,
Remember those who passed — feel their pain.
To honor the dead, our freedom depends,
Lest we repeat, and history re-bends.
