The Meadow

I see a meadow, Simple and plain, But it speaks to me, And it speaks of the fallen men, And all its seen slain. Flowers bloom at its edge, Seems of a comforting place, But it spoke to me, It spoke of the war, Man to man, race to race, From its edges to beyond the ever far. Only green, green grass, But I can see it now, Red blood upon the field, And the courage the men must wield. I can hear the shouts, From the broken meadow, From all it has seen, It shall never forget, What it must clean. Blood soaked meadow, Bodies beneath the earth, Where war was once fought, Is now a place of mirth. No one knows, Only the meadow and I, Of the many horrid things, That took place that day. I look below me, And grieve, For the fallen and dead, As the tears beckon my sleeve. The meadow, As lonely as it may seem, And the beauty it now holds, We know the truth, So I sit, and never move, As the rest of its story unfolds. I can see it all, I shall never forget. One day, Another shall pass, To see a meadow, Simple and plain, And I will rise, To tell them of those who had been slain.