In Flanders
Field the British dead were left
To molder
in summer's sun. Red poppies
Grew
in earth turned by shells. Mothers,
bereft,
Wept
in London. Paperboys hawked copies
Of
the Daily Mail with "YPRES AGAIN!"
Across
the head. The politicians talked.
Boys
in knickers still at school dreamed of when
They
too might fight the Hun. John Keats
once walked
In
fields of flowers listening for a bird
To
call him back to something close to peace;
Wan,
weakened, waiting for a single word,
To
end a single line, he tried to cease
The
ceaseless war against the waste of time.
But soldiers
know such wars aren't fought in rhyme.
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