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 innocend tongues,- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. { Wilfred Owen - Oct.1917- Mar.1918 }
Did somebody ordered some angst? :D Till Queendom Come content, fast forward to allegedly the worst time ever to move for a job experience in France. Pose study, played with some acrylic, discovered that this paper really doesn’t get along with washi tape, shaded in digital.
