The red-petaled mouth of the soil is closed at last,
Where iron once screamed and the sky turned white as bone;
The seasons have buried the whistle’s final blast,
And replaced the flesh and steel with rows of stone.
I do not remember the "pride" or the "noble end,"
I only remember the weight of the men who fell;
The way my mud inhaled a dying friend,
And muffled the echoes of that man-made hell.
I watch as the strangers walk through the quiet rows,
With cameras and poppies and feet that do not tire;
They stand where the daisy and the wild clover grows,
Upon their roots once fed by blood and fire.
So fold up your maps, for you’ve found where the journey ends,
And lay down the grief you have carried over time;
I have guarded the ground where he fell among his friends,
His memory is yours, but his body is mine
Jan 2
Jan 2, 2026 at 8:47 AM UTC
The red-petaled mouth of the soil is closed at last,
Where iron once screamed and the sky turned white as bone;
The seasons have buried the whistle’s final blast,
And replaced the flesh and steel with rows of stone.
I do not remember the "pride" or the "noble end,"
I only remember the weight of the men who fell;
The way my mud inhaled a dying friend,
And muffled the echoes of that man-made hell.
I watch as the strangers walk through the quiet rows,
With cameras and poppies and feet that do not tire;
They stand where the daisy and the wild clover grows,
Upon their roots once fed by blood and fire.
So fold up your maps, for you’ve found where the journey ends,
And lay down the grief you have carried over time;
I have guarded the ground where he fell among his friends,
His memory is yours, but his body is mine
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