! 11.11.: To The Fallen
Poem by Michael Shepherd
Embattled in that mud - and blood-red poppies;
flooded trenches holding 'them' at bay;
life or death a coin's flippant toss-up;
deafening shellfire near by night and day -
for us, these horrors now are others' lives,
impossible to truly comprehend;
yet in my own mind's state, I recognise
these battles are still raging without end:
the mud, the clung-to life, the enemy
imagined - these, we strive still to invent.
Their thoughts, at death's door, lost to memory:
'I love you...' - gone, a family's content.
We owe to them to live a life of love
as if we were transfused from their own blood.
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