94 years ago , one of the most memoriable wars on the world has ended. More than 400,000 people died within two months. Almost a legend. In their beloved memory…
The monument, a Turkish soldier carrying an Anzac soldier.
Gallipoli
“What land werw you torn away from
what makes you so sad having come here”
asked Mehmet the soldier from Anatolia
addressing the Anzak lying near
“FROM THE UTTERMOST ENDS OF THE WORD I come
so it writes on my tombstone”
answered the youthful Anzak “and here I am
buried in land that I had not even known”
“do not be disheartened mate”
Mehmet told him tenderly
“you share with us the same fate
in the bosom of or country
you are not a stranger anymore
you have become a Mehmet just like me”
a paradise on earth Gallipoli
is a burial under the ground
those who lost their lives in fighting
lie there mingled in friendly compound
Mehmet then asked an English soldier
who seemed to be at the playing age
“how old are you little brother
what brought you here at such an early stage”
“I am fifteen forever” the English soldier said
“in the village from where I come
I used to play war with the children
Arousing them with my drum
then I found myself in the front
was it real or a game before I could tell
my drum fell silent
as I was struck with a shell
a place was dug for me in Gallipoli
on my stone was inscribed DRUMMER AGE FIFTEEN
thus ended my playful task and this is the record
of what I have done and what I have been”
a distant drum bereaved of its master
was weeping somewhere around
as drops of tear fell on it
with the soft rainfall on the ground
what winds had hurled
all those youthful brains
from four continents of the world
to the Gallipoli graves
Mehmet asked in wonder
they were English or Scotch
they were French or Senegalese
they were Indians or Nepalese
they were Anzacs
from Australia and New Zealand
shipsful of soldiers who had landed
on the lacy bays of Gallipoli not knowing why
climbed the hills and slopes rising high
digging trenches cutting the earth like wounds
to shelter as graves those were to die
some where BELIEVED TO BE BURIED
in one cemetery or another
some where in GRAVES UNKNOWN
all had ENTERED INTO REST
in the language of the tombs
at the age of sixteen or seventeen or eighteen
under the soil of Gallipoli
thus their short lived stories were told
as inscriptions on tablets of old
buried there Mehmet of Anatolia
without a stone to tell
consoled them saying “brothers”
I understand you so well
for centuries I also had to die
in distant lands not knowing why
for the first time I gave my life not feeling sore
for I gave it here for my own in a war
thus the sultans fief tilled for ages with my hand
has now become for me a motherland
you who died in this land you did not know
are no more foreigner or foe
for the land which you could not take
has taken you to her bosom too
you therefore belong here
as much as I do
in Gallipoli a strange war was fought
cooling off the feelings
as fighting became hot
it was a ruthless war
yet breeding respect
in heart to heart exchange
as confronting trenches
fell into closer range
turning foe to friend
as the fighters reached their end
the war came to a close
those who survived
returned to their lands and homes
leaving the dead behind
wild flowers wave after wave
replaced the retiring soldiers
wild roses and mountain tulips and daisies
were spread as rugs on the ground
covering trench -by- trench
the wounds of fighting on the earth
the ship turned the bankers into sheds
the birds replaced the bullets in the sky
nature with hands holding the plough instead of guns
captured back the battlegrounds
with its flowers and fruits and greenery
and life returned to the soil
as traces of blood were effaced
turning the hell of the battlefield
into a paradise on earth
Gallipoli now abounds
with gardens full
with nations full
of burial grounds
a paradise on earth Gallipoli
is a burial under the ground
those who lost their lives in fighting
lie there mingled in friendly compound
“Iying side by side”
as “friends in each other’s arms”
they may “sleep in comfort and peace”
in the land for which they died”
Bülent Ecevit, former PM of Turkey.
Boadicea's Chariot 
Story of the momument in the blog:
The story of the monument:
“..early in the conflict an Anzac officer had been shot and was laying in no mans land mournfully pleading for help, although none could be given due to his location. After some time a white flag was tentatively raised in the Turkish trenches, then a lone Turk rose from them and went to the injured man – picking him up and carrying him to the safety of the Anzac line. The Turk returned to his trenches and went on fighting, but the act of bravery and compassion was one of the defining moments of the campaign and helped generate the mutual respect and friendship between the two sides (and nations)”
From the Anzac side:
‘For The Fallen’
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill: Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain,
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
Laurence Binyon (1869-1943)
As you said on my post: I will read this tomorrow with a ‘sound’ head. 🙂
🙂
Howzit Levent
My Grandfather fought in the Boer War, My Father was in the Pacific when the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, My friends and I were looking at the lights of Luanda when that arsehole Jimmy Carter pulled the plug (we could have gone on to Cairo)
Sorry mate, I just have difficulty appreciating ‘poetry’ to dead comrades1
Errrr.. 🙂