Ten Thousand Crosses Poem by ANDREW BLAKEMORE

Ten thousand crosses in a field
The picture that is war,
Each one the same each one a grave
A sight that does abhor,
They fought to save their country for
Its honour and its pride,
Were comrades on the battlefield
Now lying side by side.

And some as young as seventeen
Their lives a tragic waste,
They never had the chance to live
Were sent to war in haste,
They won't grow old like you and I
They did not have a choice,
I'm sure they'd say just fight for peace
If we could hear their voice.

For each one had a mother's love
Each one a father's too,
Who did grieve their passing and
Yet nothing could they do,
Their families who still mourn them who
Have suffered all those years,
The headstones stained with bitterness
And all their heartfelt tears.

For them the pain shall never fade
Although the years do pass,
For time can never heal their wounds
Their sadness stays alas,
Ten thousand crosses bear a name
Their rank their age where fell,
And now within that foreign field
So many souls do dwell.