The mud, it clings against its crimson stain,
Across the field where the poppies reign.
Barely just a teenager, a life so new and young,
Now another casualty—look what war has brung.
The air grows still, the guns now cease,
A softened wind, a whispered peace.
He slumps amongst the fallen red,
His last breaths leave his weary head.
No more the screams, nor the cries of pain,
Mere silence on the poppy plain.
His fading eyes, they scan the scene,
The poppies dance, his tranquil dream.
A smile escapes his coldened lips,
With life’s last breath, his spirit slips.
The war is done, peace is here,
His duty’s end, drowned in a tear.
He sleeps among the fallen brave,
Where he lies in a nameless grave.
And in the breeze, the poppies sway,
An eternal tribute to this day.
