Do Not Go Gently

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy – Matthew 5.5 

“The meek are dead” – Howard

What drives populations to meekly go to their doom? Entire civilizations have risen, fallen and disappeared. Their bones are long buried, their flesh long turned to ash and dirt or have become smoke from the billions of funeral pyres and cremations that drifted up into the atmosphere and around the world. Think on those carbon footprints!

Besides state propaganda, armed uniformed police and military martial government mandates and coercion and fear, what drove vast millions of distracted and distressed people to line up for useless tests that could test for everything but a virus, wear compliance identifying, oxygen depriving, bacteria incubating facial masks that could not prevent viral transfer – and keep their distance to mass up for Nazi/Mengele type experimental injections – developed at the speed of science – without informed consent? What made them value a new passport that confirmed their compliance and allowed them to travel, socialize or to eat at fast food restaurants? What makes parents line up their unborn children and born babies for the experiments out of a false sense of virtue and sacrifice? What made them fight each other to be first in line? What still makes them mask their injected, dead children at open casket funerals attended by injected,masked mourners that haven’t died suddenly – yet? They still go gently without question, without a fight. They step over the dead to be first.

Why?

Why not let them?

“Will people only go where they want to be led?” – Howard?

From Hannah Arendt’s ‘Eichmann In Jerusalem – A Report On The Banality of Evil, Chapter 1

‘The contrast between Israeli heroism and the submissive meekness with which Jews went to their death – arriving on time at the transportation points, walking on their own feet to the places of execution, digging their own graves, undressing and making neat piles of their clothing, and lying down side by side to be shot – seemed a fine point, and the prosecutor , asking witness after witness, “Why did you not protest?”, “Why did you board the train?”, “Fifteen thousand people were standing there and hundreds of guards facing you – why didn’t you revolt and charge and attack?” was elaborating it for all it was worth. But the sad truth of the matter is that the point was ill taken, for no non-Jewish group or people had behaved differently. Sixteen years ago, while still under the direct impact of the events, David Rousset, a former inmate of Buchenwald, described what we know happened in all concentration camps: “The triunph of the S.S. demands that the tortured victim allow himself to be led to the noose without protesting, that renounce and abandon himself to the point of ceasing to affirm his identity. And it is not for nothing. It is not gratuitously, out of sheer sadism, that the S.S. men desire his defeat. They know that the system which succeeds in destroying its victim before he mounts the scaffold…is incomparably the best for keeping a whole people in slavery. In submission. Nothing is more terrible than these processions of human beings going like dummies to their deaths” (Les Jours de notr mort, 1947)’

DO NOT GO GENTLY INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT – Dylan Thomas

A poem about something else to be sure.

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.