Poppies of blood stain the earthen floor,
In memory of those that are no more,
Thousands of poppies, all so red,
One for each person that's now dead.
War-red poppies line the ground,
All is quiet; not a sound
They deserve to live again
Through these tiny poppies they live.
And so, in this month, we give
A blood red poppy,
And so, through this field, we'll always remember.
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