Although poppies grow row on row,
we sadly reap what in truth we sow.
They are the dead; and time does fly.
We tend to repeat; the dead don’t lie.
War is the absence of love and reason.
No matter the time, place or season.
The dead cry out, why must it repeat?
We are all equal! Sanity, reason must meet!
In every field!
Take up their quarrel, ignorance is their foe:
To you their lives, their love they bestow.
Their lives; we must remember those that died.
They have not slept, the dead cry out!
In every field!
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