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The Lost Generation
May 29, 2013
Manicured green lawns, muddy shell-holes
Rows of white crosses, a helmet upon a bayonet
Beds of red poppies, deathbeds for the living
Forever the fields of the lost
A row of crosses for each row of names
The white stained with a shock of scarlet
One runs their fingers over the names, worn by time
Feeling the suffering of millions
Each day in time begins with a sunrise and ends with sunset
As one walks among the crosses row on row, the days replay
Seeing the simple words: A soldier of the Great War
It makes one wonder: What is a life worth?
© Justin R., Angola, IN
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