In the whispering embrace of twilight's veil

In the whispering embrace of twilight's veil, Where shadows lengthen and echoes of memory swell, I find myself drifting in a river of consciousness, Young boys, brave and bold, stepping into eternity, Like crimson poppies falling on sacred ground, Innocence forsaken in villages and towns. The cold hand of death and the longing for peace, Rifles, bayonets, and thunderous artilleries, Chasing clouds and dreaming of ethereal dames, Lives consumed by the relentless flames of war. Sunrises in their hearts, moonlight in their eyes, Yet sunsets came too soon, heedless of their cries, "Mother, father, your beloved son shall return," As a thousand splendid stars on each face burn. Crimson poppies adorning their uniforms, Tender and warm, a somber adornment, Crimson poppies beneath their nails, In their boots; their final exhale. Tea and meals prepared by mother's hand, Now only in memories, their presence sketched. Father’s gruff voice and playful fights with siblings, Echoes of a distant life, yet empowering. Home was now a trench, a brotherhood forged, In the spirit of camaraderie, their hearts engorged. On muddied ground, their last stand found, Young boys, brave and bold, forever bound. In the twilight of thought, where lives entwine with dreams, A song of melancholy rises, a tale of eternal seams, For in the silence of eternity, they remain young stars, Shining in the cosmos, freed from war's scars. Like crimson poppies scattered across the battlefield, Their sacrifice an unending testament, forever sealed, In a world where innocence and courage eternally meld, Their spirits whisper in the winds, in stories forever held. Mystic and dramatic, their legacy weaves, Through the fabric of time, in twilight's eaves, A tapestry of valor, in crimson and gold, Young boys, brave and bold, who shall never grow old.