At the cenotaph we stand
amid the chill; clocks ticking;
hands touching watches, then
thrust back into pockets.
Amid the blood-red symbols
we forget the meaning of.
Flowers that only bloom
in unrested ground; turned-
over, the shell-shocked furrows,
and craters filled with snow;
into a blaze of neglected
and sad glory that is forever lost.
Three old men, who have
passed their century of days -
not long now to shed more tears.
Comrades and even children gone,
such is their destiny to survive
until they are become dust, in still fields,
where poppies would not grow.
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