The rich dead are collecting,
Their bones turned to dust,
The bugles cry murder,
As bayonets rust.
It never was fair,
It never made sense,
‘Kill fellow men,
Or be shot on the fence’.
‘Just war!’ Cried the abbots,
‘Go forth!’ Yelled the priests,
While the soldiers of England
Died hunched on their knees.
Youth, lost in crossfire
Red wine mixed with dirt,
Flowing from torn veins,
Fuelling the earth.
The Earth bears her scars,
From all that she knows,
Proof in empty battlefields,
Where crimson poppies grow.
For every petal fallen,
A life began to dim.
For every petal fallen
Someone remembers him
For every petal fallen
We learned nothing of our sins,
For every petal fallen
The future must begin.
For every petal fallen
War should not be fought again.
Author notes
I was reading some of Rupert Brooke's war poems and they are so romanticized comapred to poems written by soldiers who actually got to see battle. Anyway this is basically my interpretation of Brooke's romantic view of war, and how it may have shifted in the aftermath.
Please tell me what you think
Comments
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This is a very good write I really enjoyed it. I love the medifore(sp) "Where crimson poppies grow and how you took the poems from there. Thats for sharing your poetry!
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