31. Fallen Comrades

The field of grass, blowing in the wind
Blue skies with white puffed clouds.
The trees scarred by history of this land
A red poppy bleeds for the spirit of man.

Birds fly by with the freedom of flight.
What desperation; a hand held out tight.
Reaching for cover, any cover.
From projectiles; directed by sight...

The sounds now, of the quiet landscape...
On echoes, the flashbacks of the hell...
The shouting and despair of dying.
A red poppy bleeds for the spirit of man.

The trenches, makeshift graves...
Spread widely across the fields.
Chaos stricken; a breathless rush,
To reach the dense trees, and bush.

A futile aim of simple steps.
Most difficult to obtain, and yet!
The destination diminishes each minute
Every second, on seeing each fallen, fellow man.

Wet and tired, no ease of strain,
The crying and moaning and battle sound gain;
A desperate call, one push more...
A red poppy bleeds for the spirit no-more...

Just reaching the boundaries alive...
The hope of my comrades cries...
The evolvement of man we should deny...
A field of poppies bleeds for mankind..