In Sovereign Fields

In sovereign fields, poppies blow.

Soft as unyielding snow,
but tough as crosses,
row on row.

Larks above cede the
ground to
crows these days.

We were the Dead all
those decades ago,
now a bedrock
for bones, so they might

feel sunset’s
glow one final
time
before they
come to lie at the
helm of
stolen hope
themselves.

Take up our hell with
the foe who set a fire
and his
sympathizers,
most whom tirelessly work to
allow

the torch you hold high
to be thrown once
again,
between a stranger and
friend who
reminds you
of home.

So the rest
of us might
lie
in sovereign
fields,
others made up
with devils,

transcended
goodbyes
with the utmost
zeal.

For all
war steals,
poetry can never
repay.

***

(Ugh. I rarely make an aside to my poetry, but out of respect for both the original author and more importantly, our veterans young and old, I will admit it might appear shameless to exploit IFF, but I do want to underline my love for the original poem. Before it can be said, I am inclined to counter with this:

if I could ever write anything as profound and timeless as In Flander’s Fields, I would die a happy poet.)

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