Behold my form, my humble guise, my fragile fashioned grace.
Look deep within the giver’s eyes, some noble hopes to trace.
November’s here and folks look back to what heroes have bought.
They stood as one as things looked black, courageous as they fought.
Not all survived the grief-filled times. Not all returned scot-free.
Not all were able to pen rhymes of utmost misery.
I’m just a poppy, nothing more. I spilt no dropp of blood.
I didn’t wince with pain through war... nor turn the foul flood.
I didn’t march across the fields, nor swim against the tide
And yet I’m loved by each who yields a conscience still inside.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem