# data[].attributes.body
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

# data[].attributes.body
Blow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.

Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.

# data[].attributes.body
Dear! of all happy in the hour, most blest
He who has found our hid security,
Assured in the dark tides of the world at rest,
And heard our word, "Who is so safe as we?"
We have found safety with all things undying,
The winds, and morning, tears of men and mirth,
The deep night, and birds singing, and clouds flying,
And sleep, and freedom, and the autumnal earth.
We have built a house that is not for Time's throwing.
We have gained a peace unshaken by pain for ever.
War knows no power. Safe shall be my going,
Secretly armed against all death's endeavour;
Safe though all safety's lost; safe where men fall;
And if these poor limbs die, safest of all.

# data[].attributes.body
Now, God be thanked Who has matched us with His hour,
And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping,
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary,
Leave the sick hearts that honour could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
And all the little emptiness of love!

Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
Where there's no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart's long peace there
But only agony, and that has ending;
And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

# data[].attributes.body
Just days ago a death would have been headline news, to see a corpse would be something to seek the counsel of friends about - no longer. These streets we once roamed singing with half-drunk beers have become a battle field. Previously innocuous garden walls are a place for the lawless to hide, those who wish for anarchy over order. They hate us for fitting in with the old system, for working all our lives for a few sick years of retirement... What did they ever do but find the easiest paths, freeload... what do they think this new society will be, who will work? Food can't be dreamt up and roads don't make themselves. They aren't so much Robin Hood as harbingers of a meaner era - the revolutionaries who will soon be the guarding their new dictator.

# data[].attributes.body
- the aftermath of a war
- a soldier in a war
- a war veteran
- someone who loss a love one in a war
- a soldier dying and contemplating life
- adrenaline of a soldier
- London Blitz

# data[].attributes.headline
The battlefield that day saw fathers fighting to their last breath and the young army of conquerors wielding swords without mercy. The wounded and dead lay thickly over the wintry ground, garish scarlet flowing over the frosted white. When the bugle sounded the mothers came too, not all, just the ones schooled in battle. Without a victory death was the better of the two options, these foes took only perfect specimens as slaves and left the rest to fertilize their new fields.

# data[].attributes.subject
The battlefield that day saw fathers fighting to their last breath and the young army of conquerors wielding swords without mercy. The wounded and dead lay thickly over the wintry ground, garish scarlet flowing over the frosted white. When the bugle sounded the mothers came too, not all, just the ones schooled in battle. Without a victory death was the better of the two options, these foes took only perfect specimens as slaves and left the rest to fertilize their new fields.

# data[].attributes.headline
The battlefield lay quiet, for it was now a graveyard of the unburied. Their corpses lay among the buttercups and forget-me-nots. The sun still shone and the wind still blew, but somewhere mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters waited in vain. These men that were once boys who played in the yard with sticks and laughed at each other's silly tales were now meat for the birds.Their eyes were as immobile as their limbs. Their souls had long departed to the celestial planes to walk with the ancestors. The battle was lost, the enemy had won. Now they camped a mile away to plan the ransacking of the town itself.

# data[].attributes.subject
The battlefield lay quiet, for it was now a graveyard of the unburied. Their corpses lay among the buttercups and forget-me-nots. The sun still shone and the wind still blew, but somewhere mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters waited in vain. These men that were once boys who played in the yard with sticks and laughed at each other's silly tales were now meat for the birds.Their eyes were as immobile as their limbs. Their souls had long departed to the celestial planes to walk with the ancestors. The battle was lost, the enemy had won. Now they camped a mile away to plan the ransacking of the town itself.

# data[].attributes.headline
It was a battlefield that appeared to be anything but, the players unknowing of their roles and every one of them a double agent. I wish I could have told them all what reality is, how to choose the side that is love and healing... avoiding the chasms that open and the knives that appear in the hand without asking for them. Each sought to be on the right side, convincing themselves that they were. When they did the bidding of the darkness they made up stories to justify their actions rather than face what they had really done. It takes someone strong to feel the sting of the dark-side and remain steadfast in a will to work only for the light - to see the dagger in hand at the exact moment you feel compelled to use it and still be loving and kind, to let the weapon clatter to the floor, soundless, unnoticed. That's what being a warrior for the light requires, an inner strength, a keen eye for noble and good opportunities to bring peace, health and love - a self-control to avoid doing service for the one who harms. That was the war, the one we won, but it was hard every day, turning for the better only when we became players instead of pawns, destined to protect our king

# data[].attributes.subject
It was a battlefield that appeared to be anything but, the players unknowing of their roles and every one of them a double agent. I wish I could have told them all what reality is, how to choose the side that is love and healing... avoiding the chasms that open and the knives that appear in the hand without asking for them. Each sought to be on the right side, convincing themselves that they were. When they did the bidding of the darkness they made up stories to justify their actions rather than face what they had really done. It takes someone strong to feel the sting of the dark-side and remain steadfast in a will to work only for the light - to see the dagger in hand at the exact moment you feel compelled to use it and still be loving and kind, to let the weapon clatter to the floor, soundless, unnoticed. That's what being a warrior for the light requires, an inner strength, a keen eye for noble and good opportunities to bring peace, health and love - a self-control to avoid doing service for the one who harms. That was the war, the one we won, but it was hard every day, turning for the better only when we became players instead of pawns, destined to protect our king

# data[].attributes.body
As he stands in uniform, a poppy on his chest, the soldier makes the salute to fallen friends. A wave of memories surges with the power of an ocean and he is engulfed in grief. Tears run down his face and he does not try to hide, he does not look away, he does not bury his face. He is proud to shed these tears for those who passed on in the war, those who did not make it home to parents, spouses and children. They departed the earth too soon and he would stand with fierce pride each November 11th to mark their lives as well as their untimely deaths. He would stand to say 'You are remembered, my friends.'

# data[].attributes.body
"It was well known from the monsters of history that people didn't react to death tolls if they were too high to comprehend. One death can mobilize a community, even a nation. Many deaths, hundreds or thousands, can make a lasting impression to be used for good or bad intentions. Millions of deaths were the ticket, make it bloody enough and people will keep on eating their cornflakes and pouring their coffee. We just aren't wired to cope with that kind of devastation and so we don't, like a safety shutdown. So the path for the warlords was simple, make sure the death tolls are as high as possible. For those freaks that are able to react - shut them down with fear of the "enemy." Wicked fun. Worked every time. The only antidote was to shine a light on one dead child at a time, just one. Let the world see each God's child killed in the name of war, in the name of money and greed."