The War has raged on, for 6 months or more,
But from the grounds of the battlefields, flowers now soar.
It’s Spring in Europe, the time for new life,
Who would have thought of this World full of strife.
Seas of poppies stretch for mile upon mile,
From the East to the West, they should make us all smile.
But the blood that has fed the ground where they grow,
Brings nothing but sadness, tears, and sorrow.
This view is remembered by so few nowadays,
It is lost or not known, to us who stand by the graves
of men fallen in battle, so we could all live.
A life and their future is what they would give.
So each year in November, we all gather round,
To say prayers for the fallen who lie in that ground.
Leaving wreaths of poppies and peons of thanks,
To all those who died, throughout all of their Ranks.
Poppies still grow in those fields far away,
Visitors come to see, to give thanks and pray.
My friends think I’m obsessive in these words that I say,
But my thanks go to those who gave their tomorrows.
For my yesterdays.