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Seen through the eyes,of the dead and dying. Sad pain ever remembered,within a heartache. Young people ever die,to preserve a way of life. War is such a sin,mankind killing off it's children. In Flanders Field,white crosses seem so endless. And poppies grow, the color of fresh blood. A sad reminder,of things so soon forgotten. That wars forever kill, our sons and daughters. We live within our pains,forever crying. As war toys,ever crush and grind our bones. Thoughts within our minds,so often trampled down. For in weighs upon the shoulders,of all mankind. Within the fields,tear drops in crimson falling. Ever flowing down the cheeks,of baby soldiers. And pain ignites,like an out of control fire. Within the hearts and souls,of mothers and fathers. In the end,we must remember that war is painful. And therefore must be stopped,before it starts. The young and innocent,forever give their flesh and blood. While politicians who start wars,ever stay at home relaxing.  And in Flanders Fields,the blood red poppies grow. In among white crosses,ever becoming more and more. And we seem so much better,at attending to the flowers. Then we are,at ever watching our children grow old.

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