World War I

Millions lie in a field of poppies, eyes closed, uncaring.
Lives stolen by the arrogance of emperors,
Shall the people pay? No.
It is the politician who burns, not the soldier.
The living collapse among the wreckage of the world.
Children left without fathers, wives made widows.
Are not the dead lucky? They are not left behind.
Here in this field of contradictions, do you think people care of the color of your skin?
Do they care who your ancestors are, or what religion you follow?
Do the French care if they lie next to Germans? Do Capitalists care if they rest near a Communist?
For them, there is no Supreme Being, be it king or God. Death is the only true leveler.
In death we see people as they truly are: victims of greed, be it their own or others.
It is the folly of man that brings horrors to our hearts.
We sit grieving, wondering why. For the answer, we should look to our neighbors.
We should turn to the people looking for gain and honor, who crave war.
The blame lies on their shoulders, as surely as spring follows winter.
After this war, will the sun set on the British Empire?
Will God really be with the Germans?
Is it truly survival of the fittest, if the fittest are sacrificed on the blood-soaked fields?
Honor is a trivial thing, when breathing your last breath.
Terror has paralyzed the world, shaking the foundations of our existence.
Here, in the silence of death, the poppies stand witness to the abomination of bloodshed.