In Flanders fields the poppies grow; <br />Their roots reach down to twine amongst the bones, <br />The mouldering bones. <br /> <br />Each skull in grinning disbelief voices <br />Its eternal question, for what? And no answer comes, <br />No answer comes. <br /> <br />There are no lungs to find; <br />Long rotted from within, from gasping breaths of gas, <br />From choking gas. <br /> <br />No heroes these, but common men <br />Who selfless thought to serve, to do the right thing, <br />Unquestioned right thing. <br /> <br />Their souls now wait deep underground; <br />Deep amongst the rusting, shattered fragments of twisting Death, <br />Of youthful Death. <br /> <br />Only the Sun kissed faces red; <br />That wave upon the land above, serve to remind, <br />Ever remind us. <br /> <br />In Flanders fields the poppies grow.<br /><br />Edward Clapham<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-flanders-fields-2/
