In towns where poppies gently fall,
And bugles sound the mournful call,
We praise the brave, the bold, the true—
But seldom speak of the silent few.
They wear no medals, only hold the frame,
Of one who marched in duty’s name.
A father lost, a mother gone,
A child who walks this world alone.
The brother’s grin, the sister’s laugh,
Now whispers in a photograph.
The pain they bear, they do not show—
Their tears fall soft, like winter snow.
Each year they stand with heads held high,
Beneath the grey November sky.
Among the ranks, they blend with pride,
Yet grief walks quietly by their side.
The crowds applaud, the flags are raised,
The fallen heroes duly praised.
But in the hush that follows cheers,
The mourners speak through silent tears.
For them, the war did not quite end,
It took a life, it stole a friend.
And though the nation wears its red,
They live with what was left unsaid.
So let us honour not just those
Who fell beneath the battle’s blows,
But those who bear the loss each day—
The ones who gave, and still must pay.
Lest we forget, the brave and true—
And those who mourn them, quietly too.