'For The Fallen'

An Army of Skeletons wearing uniforms rising from the mud from the trenches.  They hold out imploring hands toward the bright sun and are weeping for their abandonment’s in the swampy soil. 

Who will tell of the melancholy of the soldier whose brother-in-arms who has fallen on the Battlefield? 

Who will talk about the disarray of the men from the South who have come to help in a hostile country? 

Who will talk about the suffering of men feeling lost far away from home who will fight for a few inches of field?

Who will talk about the agony of the floods, rats and vermin ridden trenches, the last rampart against death?

Who will talk about the dread of the soldiers who are imprisoned in barbed wire entanglement, the target of the machine gun bursts?

Who will talk about the pain of Mothers who have just read the telegram about a beloved son passing away?

Who will talk about the future of the devastated land, of the jagged trees, of the frightened birds, of the bloodstained rivers?

Who will talk about the pain of the draught horses, they have been conscripted, in the army they die fighting too?

Who will talk about the hours of agony of the young soldier who has been asphyxiated and burnt by gasses?

Who will talk about the dreadful reality of those disabled forever, their facial injuries condemn to a future of finger pointing and whispers? 

Who will talk about the fear of remaining on this field forever, his grave that will only be known by God?

Remember, I was 20.  I came to the Flanders Fields for you.  The sun went down for me and I’m still lying here. I remain only with a stone recording ‘unknown soldier’ and a name carved amongst so many others on the Menin Gate. Please don’t forget me, don’t forget my brothers’, our sacrifice.  Remember our blood impregnates the Flanders Fields.

Keep us in your hearts, I beg of you. Grant us a little space in your life.

Dear soldier, you and your brothers are in my pained heart forever and the Poppies, which bloom every year, remind me of you.  I offer you my tears. May they comfort you for not having grown old.  The banner, which flaps in the wind, calls your names and recites your calls for help.  The Last Post, which reflects back your screams, moves the hearts of the living that won’t forget your sacrifice and say thank you to you and your brothers.

By Mireille Picron