The fields are full of poppies; my heart bleeds
Deep in my field of dreams, in my sad soul,
They stretch on and on. Far away
I see wooden crosses of men and boys
Slain on fields of green, turned poppy red
With blood of the ordered man.
The stem of the delicate flower
Is strong, as the obedient soldier
It sways in the breeze, persisting.
Can you hear the cry of the dead?
Listen! The scream of the living
Tells of the greatness of survival
The slaughter of death.
Of the longing to be home
To see in the fields, the poppies
Growing wild and free.
(C) 2014 Sheighle Birdthistle (The Toga and The Rose)
Deep in my field of dreams, in my sad soul,
They stretch on and on. Far away
I see wooden crosses of men and boys
Slain on fields of green, turned poppy red
With blood of the ordered man.
The stem of the delicate flower
Is strong, as the obedient soldier
It sways in the breeze, persisting.
Can you hear the cry of the dead?
Listen! The scream of the living
Tells of the greatness of survival
The slaughter of death.
Of the longing to be home
To see in the fields, the poppies
Growing wild and free.
(C) 2014 Sheighle Birdthistle (The Toga and The Rose)