“I was okay with dying.” The Irishman tells the ghost of an unknown soldier. “It’s inevitable. Especially in war.” He sits down facing the sunset.
The soldier picks up a red poppy from the field. “How did you die?”
“I was airborne.” Says the Irishman. “I died from a crash. You?”
The soldier looks up at him. “Gunshot wound. Although one of these poppies is for me. My body lies back in the trenches.”
The Irishman nodded. “My body lies back at the crash. No one has found me yet.”
“We were alive a short while ago.” The soldier says. “We laughed and breathed. Now we’re stuck here for eternity.”