Australian soldiers dragging the wounded to the blockhouse following the first battle of Passchendale, October 12, 1917 No More Brother Wars

A Soldiers Grave (1/2)

Beneath the ground, void of sound,
The soldiers all now lay,
Unknowing why, they had to die,
Upon their final day.

Their battle cries, filled the skies
Fighting for what they believed,
For good, for hope, for life and for love.
Oh how they were deceived.

Now they rest beneath the soil,
Despite all hope and prayer.
Unknowing why they really died,
Unknowing why they're there.

Our finest men, our fighting folk
Built of our finest of stock.
Some would die by knife and gun,
Some with their back to a block

The sea, the land, the sky itself.
Each became death over life,
So did end the lives of men,
Which did so in struggle and strife.

No peace for them, no long goodbye's,
No notes or final say.
A moments thought for all they loved,
Before they fade away.

Some still lay where they fell,
Some graves are only a name
An empty space in an empty row
And each of them all look the same.

Some may say, as together they lay,
This is what they would choose.
As brothers they rest among our best,
With nothing at all left to loose.

But I protest, I mourn their death,
As a crime on each soul and the truth.
They're far more, than a hole in the floor,
Had they been old or in youth.

The cenotaph sits so big and so proud,
So far from the death and the cost.
It shows not the faces of each of the slain,
Nor the families to whom they were lost.

Plaques, memorials, photo's and film.
They each claim to speak for the dead,
How many I wonder would have died for a lie,
If it was truth that was upheld instead.

Still they sit in their military pit,
Some have done so for years,
Each demise, forever closed eyes.
Leaving much heartache and tears

Pass now their graves and give them a glimpse,
Read all the names that you can,
There will be listed the year they were robbed,
And the year in which they began.

Give them a thought so somebody will,
Ponder as to how they departed.
Their life meant more than the reasons of war,
With some over before they had started.

The young they tore them self to shreds,
In fear of their lives till the last
They cried and stabbed and shot and fell,
They died be it slow or it fast.

They died all the same, no matter how kind
No matter how brave or meek.
From children to men, without knowing when,
Lost all that made them unique.

Those who tell the stories of war
Do so in disguise and distain
Lives are not a political tool,
Nor are they financial gain.

We'll never hear from those who've gone,
Their voices are trapped in the past.
If we could go back we'd change all that was,
We'd stop every shot and blast.

New rows stack upon themselves
Though these stacks they never seem dirty.
They list the age of so many lost,
With so many under thirty.

The teenagers rest beside the men,
The young men rest there as well.
I wonder what was on their mind,
As they faced that murderous hell.

Lieutenants, pilots, gunners and sergeants,
Guard now the ground where they lay
The sailor's, Parras, colonels and privates
Act now as public display.

From far and wide each was found,
They meet for the first time in death.
They felt so proud and duty bound,
Until their very last breath.

Lies have reigned for far too long,
Affecting the minds of the pure,
It’s illness plagues all of mankind,
And often has no cure.

There’s many who died with God on their side,
Or so at least they thought,
They instead met demise in utter surprise
No matter how hard they fought.

They're scattered across our nations,
In graveyards far and wide,
Even if you found each one,
It’s a fraction of who died.

No eye could see, the space they’d cover.
For tens of miles they’d row
The horizon itself would be blocked out
By the numbers no-one would know.

The unknown soldier rests beneath,
His tiny cross-like stake
His story’s gone and will never be told,
Without even so much as a wake.

Many exist alone somewhere,
Their fate seemed sealed from the start.
Emblems now sit on each of their graves,
Suggesting they each played their part.

Part 2: https://t.me/vinniesullivan/16430

Part 2/2

The older tales of war are there,
Their graves seem to fade so fast.
They too fought for the futures sake,
Though we left them in the past.

We left them each to rot alone,
As if with a good enough reason.
We claim a victory in their name.
When what we did was treason

Bothers and sisters slaughtered their own,
They died in each others blood.
No praise awaited their return
Only a place in the mud

Goodbye to the names lost for all time,
Wherever and whoever you are,
Be you on land or lost in the tide
Be you at home or afar.

Goodbye to each of those of you slain,
Farewell to those who’ve departed.
A memory too for the parents who,
You left so broken hearted.

We never ask why, we simply comply,
We believe all the reasons we’re told.
While we sit by, our people all die,
Then find themselves left in the cold.

So look upon our soldiers gone
Like all that you adore
Think of this very life you love,
And the one's who live no more.

Forget not their fate, or the murderous state,
Embrace this one life and your health
Forget not the lies that saw their demise,
And remember to think for yourself.

-Vinnie Sullivan 12/10/2021

Part 1 https://t.me/vinniesullivan/16429

😰 https://t.me/DestoryTheSoy

Catholic Papacy Blamed For The Great Fire Of London

(Caption from Britain's war on the Catholic Church)

In the year 1666 a fire tore through London destroying what was once a catholic location.

After this suspicious event Christopher Wren rebuilt St Paul’s Cathedral and a monument on behalf of the Anglican C of E.

Full feature: https://t.me/Britainswaronthecatholicchurch/10

You're only allowed to add the first 200 members to your own channel… 🤣🤣🤣

Austro-Hungarian troops crossing the Isonzo River during the breakthrough at Caporetto in 1917

TRR Presents | Britain's Lost & Living Pubs - Wapping (Episode 1)
Starring Vinnie Sullivan & Luke Uncaged

Odysee Edition: https://odysee.com/@VinnieSullivan2021:e/Pubs:b
Telegram Edition: https://t.me/LostAndLivingPubs/7

“A society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they shall never sit.” — Greek Proverb.