In the fields the poppies grow,
They multiply each year :
Red as blood, yellow as hope,
The ribbons on the trees they know.
“How many letters did you get ?
Where is he now? they ask me.
Silence is the book they wrote
About a young man dedicated
To a lasting peace, who gave
For the greater good, his life.
He thought he would be back
For Christmas, they brought him home
Before, an oaken coffin tied about
With draperies of flag, a metal token
Of a life the so-called enemy had taken.
Where then is what they call the sacred land?
It lies where all the soldiers lie,
In Flanders Field, in cemeteries
Capped by headstones bearing flowers.
Poppies by the thousands flourish there
Red as spilt blood, red as anger,
Red, red, red and still it flows
For private needs, for greed,
And for another war it plants the seeds
For poppies red, poppies yellow,
A poppy apiece for every young fellow.
© Nyuka Anaïs Laurent 04.10.2010