In silent Craters they fell
Generations dead and wasted
Fathers, uncles, brothers, sons
Scattered on Flanders fields.
Forgetting plough and factory
Willingly they marched to fall
Never questioning one command
Shouted on Flanders fields.
Honest pilgrims every one
In Gods defense they carried arms
Advancing forward murmuring prayers
Across the Flanders fields.
Quietly walked into the hail
That splintered flesh and bone
Erasing rows with scything fire
Above the Flanders fields.
Two centuries of British dead
From Passchendaele to Waterloo
Fingers point across the seaAway from Flanders fields.
Daily Abstract Thoughts 