Again and Again

Do they still dig up bodies from The killing Fields of Flanders, Bones of those long ago Enticed and betrayed, Lost generation, sold and Slaughtered for no real cause. Do they inter those bodies Amongst the precise rows Of immaculate graves, Each topped wth it’s Serene white cross marked With Number Rank Name, Or the Unknown Soldiers tombs For those as yet unidentifed, Those treated as cannon fodder, The Butchers’ Bill in life, To be shamelessly and cynically Too late honoured in death. Did they learn any lessons, Were promises made kept Or are those Fields of Crosses Just a sad and mute reminder Of how easily it could and Does happen again and again. Once a year they parade their National outpourings of grief While, from the latest leaders Crocodile tears shed as they take Their annual break from Calculating The continued profits of death