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)
