4-18 From Flanders Fields

Wrote this around memorial Day a year or so ago.

 

From Flanders Fields

 

From Flanders Fields though Afghan plains,

They hold their place as shrapnel rains.

When time stands still, so still they lie

In comrades’ arms—then home they fly.

 

With poppy red, held up and waved,

Salute their hopes and lives they paid.

Today recall their crosses rise

Between the rows and touch the skies.

 

 

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