Upon a beach,
White as snow,
past mistakes do show,
in barbed wire skeletons,
that shake their fingers in the wind,
Upon the beach,
Nor in the redcapped waves,
Will a poppy grow.
Upon a tree,
hidden beneath a cloak of white,
a symbol is carved along with the words,
"Here we did fight."
Nary a sound can be heard,
Save the chittering of a bird.
Upon this tree, twisted with time,
No poppy shall grow.
Upon a sidewalk,
Traversed by the residents of an ancient city,
Timeless and finite memories lie,
Of tragedies, of horrors, of inhuman wrongs.
Here in a city under the gaze of the Imperial Dragon,
The past is forgotten and hidden.
In between the concrete slabs underfoot,
No poppy shall grow.
In a book,
It's writer long since past away,
The world is at war,
Its people forgotten under labels,
Asian, German, Russian, American.
Between the dusty pages,
Yellowed with age,
A crimson poppy does grow.
