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Obrázky dávných mužů
Sesterský klub k [ Obrázky dávných krásek ]

Patří sem fotky a obrazy mužů, chlapů a kluků co už vylezli z puberty a zachycené více než před dvaceti lety. Spíše fotky portrétní, než dokumentární a objektové zájmu by měli být něčím přitažliví, spíše než jen bizarní. S libovolným množstvím oblečení, libovolné rasy.

Pokud k pánovi znáte jméno, nebo má heslo na wiki a nebo víte kdo to fotil, tak to prosím uveďte. Vlastní příbuzenstvo více než vítáno.

Máte k tomu co říct? Vložte se do diskuze.
DRABICZ --- 10:18:24 8.1.2017
KROJC: na úvaz koní
KROJC --- 9:26:15 7.1.2017
DRABICZ:Na co je asi to zábradlí za ním.Stejně se tam chodilo chcát.
DRABICZ --- 11:18:08 17.12.2016
MAEDHROS --- 3:07:09 30.11.2016
???: Den veteránů jsem poněkud prošvihla, ale nedá mi to...

Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)
(Schytal to tejden před koncem války.)

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

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 innocent 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.


Siegfried Sassoon (1886 - 1967)


Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.