I read a poem about the field
Where legions of men died
In a war that was worldwide
In the battle, Death took his yield
As his bloody scythe swung
Depriving mothers of their young
Soil and blood congealed
In the battle, many years ago
Where countless poppies do grow
Peaceful now, the land healed
Trenches and craters filled in
Stones visited by next-of-kin
Some graves remain concealed
Families eternally unaware
Of their sons final nightmare
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem