Red Poppies Of Flanders Fields

Red Poppies Of Flanders Fields
© Surazeus
2018 11 11

From starry sky to mist of morning light
I walk through red poppies of Flanders Fields
which bloom from soil disturbed by flashing bombs
and sprout from bleeding hearts of fallen men
who shot each other dead in blaze of war
and soaked the breast of Earth with tears of rage.

Where few poppies once bloomed on rolling hills
scarlet mouths of thirst open to blank sky
to drink the blood and chew the broken bones
of shattered skulls from millions of dead men
blasted by loud booming guns of world war
so bare fields now shimmer red as our hearts.

With every poppy blooming from dead hearts
mute soldiers rise to stand on Flanders Fields
who clutch rifles that rust in bony hands
and stare into bleak abyss of my heart,
longing to tell me of those carefree days
when they played with friends in the woods back home.

From face of each soldier on Flanders Fields
beams of light radiate from their gaping wounds
which blind my eyes to beauty of our world
so I grope lost in maze of paradise
while I call the name of every lost man
who stares at me with eyes of mute despair.

Disappearing into anguish of truth,
I become every man and animal
who clashed in war on soil of Flanders Fields
to dream sweet memories blasted from their minds
by every bullet zinging through cold air
as their blood feeds poppies that bloom in peace.

One hundred years ago before this day,
on eleventh hour of eleventh day
of bleak November across Flanders Fields
guns of war fell silent to break the sky
and all the spirits of those hungry men
sprout from poppies indifferent to their death.