Flanders Field again and again (a poem)

Tis the morning sun

 

invites the poppies to grow

 

 

in Flanders Field

 

on row by row

 

this a poor substitute

 

I'm afraid

 

each plot is marked with our unknown

 

souls

 

each footrest a mother's heart

 

we lie there still

 

as the poppies and dogwood grow

 

each numbered headstone

 

is a history onto itself

 

for our youths were cut short

 

by gunfire and politicians

 

the reaper's gift

 

to us row by row

 

tis requiem we cannot comprehend

 

whose valor does not pretend

 

all who think of us now

 

row upon immortal row.

 

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