Flanders Field again and again (a poem)

Tis the morning sun
invites the poppies to grow

in Flanders Field
on row by row

this a poor substitute
I'm afraid

each plot is marked with our unknown
souls

each footrest a mother's heart
we lie there still

as the poppies and dogwood grow
each numbered headstone

is a history onto itself
for our youths were cut short

by gunfire and politicians
the reaper's gift

to us row by row
tis requiem we cannot comprehend

whose valor does not pretend
all who think of us now

row upon immortal row.
Tis the morning sun
invites the poppies to grow

in Flanders Field
on row by row

this a poor substitute
I'm afraid

each plot is marked with our unknown
souls

each footrest a mother's heart
we lie there still

as the poppies and dogwood grow
each numbered headstone

is a history onto itself
for our youths were cut short

by gunfire and politicians
the reaper's gift

to us row by row
tis requiem we cannot comprehend

whose valor does not pretend
all who think of us now

row upon immortal row.