The poppies grow in Flanders Field
The dead men rest, their fate is sealed
Those blood-red petals speak the truth
Of why lay dead so many youth.
And row by row, and grave by grave
The poppies grow – now aren’t they brave?
We were once brave too, us, the Gone
But now we crumble in this earth, forlorn:
War wasn’t what we thought it would be
It was quite unlike our fantasies,
But we fought long and we fought hard
Yet we lie here, for we dropped our guard.
Disturbing dreams do loosen the tongues
Of those who live, of those who won
Do they remember what we went through?
What the leaders made us do?
Some have forgotten, others have not
And yet we will never, even as we rot.
Those poppies grow in Flanders Field
We use them as our bloody shield
From the present and the living few
They rarely think ’bout what we threw
Away, for them, our lives, no less
So they could be alive and blessed.
YOU ARE READING
Butterfly Ripples
PoesiaButterfly ripples through water and wind fluttering petals, whispering wings. Words swing 'round trees carried in a breeze of butterfly ripples so do as you please. But don't taunt their song of water and wind: to it they belong and so they will sin...
