Another Land

There is another land
where poppies grow.
Carefully planted
row after row.
Watered often and well
by the blood of young men,
how fast, how fast
they seem to grow.

No larks sing bravely
through the dreary sky.
In crimson fields
our young soldiers lie,
their dead eyes
watch the war birds fly.

As freedom’s torch
is passed once more,
I wonder,
will there ever be
an end to war.

Mothers weep
as their sons go
to another land
where poppies grow.

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