Poppy fields of Flanders, conceal a million tragedies.
A hundred thousand fallen soldiers, tainted the grass crimson.
And so they fell.
Not much grass left.
Mainly churned up mud.
Destroyed by the feet of the soldiers' in passing.
They are passing out forever.
Some were mere boys who pledged allegiance to the heavy crown.
And so they fell,almost children,
Without objections.
Marched as boys.
Buried as heroes.
An almighty salute.
(C) Livvi