In Flanders' Fields the poppies now blow,
Between ears of corn, in cultivated rows,
They vouch for our place; and in the sky
The birds, with a care-free song, fly
Scarce noticed amid the cacophony of sound.
We are still the dead. Though it was longer ago
That we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie the forgotten,
In Flanders' Fields.
You have forgotten our quarrel with the foe,
With naïve minds, you lost, the torch,
It's memory -our sacrifice- buried deep,
So very close to where we sleep,
Although Poppies still blow,
In Flanders' Field.
YOU ARE READING
Imploding Outwards
PoetryMy mind from an angle that can only be captured by words, and only once the storm has passed and the sky once again has enough peace to change and mold it's landscape
