They used to be Children,
cradled in mother’s arms.
But these men stood in the fields and didn’t need their mothers to tell them
If this was a dream.
They used to be children, with hopeful hearts and bruised knees,
And dreamed of a world of endless sunsets.
Now these men stood, with bruised souls, and hoping only
Of an end.
They knew love like the back of their hands,
It’s why they went to fight in the first place.
They were so blinded by love for This Land,
They sought for the battlefield.
They used to be children, who dreamed of endless sunsets
But these men hoped of many sunsets
For us to witness every day
In their place
As they stood under a hopeless sky of ash and cinder.
We never met the children.
we never met these men.
We were never witness to the tears shed by their loved ones,
But we see them.
See them in the ones we love,
Whom we couldn’t imagine leaving us,
Only to never return,
Or to return,
And not be the same ever again.
They will stay as young in our memory,
As the flowers that grow fresh in Flanders every year
And so, we will wear the poppy over our hearts
For many sunsets to come.