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