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Poetry from within
   

In a lonely foreign field


In a lonely foreign field,

where poppies gently weep;

Many brave men, here were killed,

in Flanders, Somme and Ypres.



That they must fight, they questioned not;

It was their obligation.

So in these fields, their corpses rot,

protecting their home nation.



The blood of many soaked the earth;

No more to see their homeland;

To sit with sweethearts by the hearth

in sweet, eternal England.



Their bodies lie beneath the crust,

too mangled to be collected;

Churned by ages into dust.

On empty graves a cross erected.

Mark Rand