The Poppies Grow

A hundred years ago.
Under skies so foreign to you all.
Who could have known?
That so many would heed the call.

I hear your names.
And pray for your souls beyond the fold.
The most dangerous game.
Mankind has got to learn before we’re too old.

Brave men of my country.
You pass the torch to me.

The poppies grow.
In Flanders Fields where men did die.
And row on row.
The crosses planted side by side.
The seeds we sow.
Grow in the dark to shine a light.
The poem echoes.
Those words again into the night.

A father and a son.
He stepped into a war to serve the crown.
And victory won.
Through sacrifice, many lay in that ground.

And so I stand.
I face the memories you all left.
As we place another wreath.
And pray that it won’t happen again.

Brave men of my family.
You hand off the torch to me.

The poppies grow.
In Flanders Fields where men did die.
And row on row.
The crosses planted side by side.
The seeds we sow.
Grow in the dark to shine a light.
The poem echoes.
Those words again into the night.

Through the wind and the cold and the rain and the snow.
We’re carrying on through the quarrel you raised with the foe.
We stand and honor you all one more time.
Close our eyes and listen to those lines.

The poppies grow.
In Flanders Fields where men did die.
And row on row.
The crosses planted side by side.
The seeds we sow.
Grow in the dark to shine a light.
The poem echoes.
Those words again into the night.