Echoes of Flanders

Where a boy of seventeen, who lies forgotten.
Dusk’s last light mourns in fading glow.
Flanders, where beauty dies, and truth remains,
Where death ensnares the fallen.

A field of red and spread-out lead remains.
Shells scatter, bodies shatter—crushed to seed.
The buds sleep with peace, the grief a memory of horror.
They wake where boys and men have bled before.

Nameless soldiers never fade nor bloom.
War is ruthless; death echoes only through the wind.
The names forgotten, but not the terror.

Bullets seed the ground where poppies rise,
Once pale, before man’s war began to burn.
Unholy greed consumes the flesh of youth,
Snaking ribbons twist in streams of blood.

War stains the land in red that never fades,
Fated to never die, even when men are lost.