One hundred years ago this week and with terrible carnage going on in Europe, Brisbane's The Worker was defying the popular idea that there is glory in war. It ran this contrary essay.
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"I
"I am War, born of man's greedy de lyric of the bayonet, the crashing or When I speak a million legions tramp metal-death, the sable clouds of car
of the Lords of Blood. I am the gangrene, the lep loathsomenesses that march under the ensign of disease. The great names that are old, sad stories were written by my iron hand upon the scroll of his
"I am the Monarch of Misery. At the raising of my sceptre desolation hastens to the hearths of a million homes. The rosy babe, babbling in its cradle, is made fatherless. The wife, forlorn and frantic and widowed, has but to cherish memories of her man. Sweet hearts, the glow gone from their days, are sundered finally, irrevocably. The father mourns his martyred son. I am the heartache and the sorrow of the world.
"I am war."
