In Flanders field, as the poem of old
Has taught us, for years the story it told.
When war came and went, and blood was shed,
From the rifles & swords, ripping limbs, pounding heads.
Where the poppies grew strong from the weakness of war,
But the families cried out, asking what it was for.
The children all run, freedom now as their right,
From all of your comrades, who joined in the fight.
To listening hard, in the lessons at school,
With the tradesmen all learning the use of each tool,
That built up a nation, from wreckages all
Besieged in a battle when good soldiers fall,
Protecting their kinsman. Who had the last laugh?
The sepia weeps with each new photograph
That fills up the newspapers, while all the world
Watched heroes, & listened while stories unfurled.
And since the beginning, and through the crusades,
Nobody has ever won truly. Each day
Another life lost, while hatred lingers on.
Still burning the bridges with human life on.
The Battles made famous, the Regiments proud,
To carry their badges and battle cries loud.
Yet here, when I sit, with my tv turned up,
I watch while another Mum cries in her cup.
If poems, & clippings, or war poets know
Anything, it is that there can be no
Relief for the skies, nor the land, nor the sea
If all that you're fighting for isn't for me.
I learn from the teachers, the books, and I know
That they'll not be forgotten, wherever they go.
And each year, remembered as The Last Post plays out.
I wonder if we learnt what war is about?