Why is it that good men die?

How arrogant, to claim the right
To send soldiers to a foreign fight,
While you yourself sleep safe at night!
How easy, too, to stand upright
When you do not have to fight
Nor charge to death at dawn’s first light!
Poppies are no comfort to those left behind.

How hollow the victory built on bones,
With soldiers’ skulls as stepping-stones—
The cheers drowned out by dying groans,
And medals sent to empty homes.
These fields are walked by Death alone;
He has with blood the trenches sown.
Poppies are no comfort to those left behind.

How delicate the peace, written in blood,
Authored by corpses long buried in mud
Or in coffins covered in a reddened flood.
Lives cut short with a sudden thud,
Flowers shorn as they began to bud,
Blood-red roses ripped from the shrub.
Poppies are no comfort to those left behind.

Heed the weary soldiers’ cries:
“We fought for you, and gave our lives,
Let us not waste our sacrifice.
Lay down your arms, if ye be wise;
Embrace your brother across the lines,
Seek peace with new, forgiving eyes.
As we ascend above to life’s great prize,
Let us rest in peace beneath blue skies.”

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written January 11-March 25, 2020
inspired by 1917