Poppies, red flowing fields glowing

Waving, motioning farewell

A gentle wind, at high sun blowing

Fragile figures creating procession less motion

Silent, psychedelic, charged neon commotion

What place of hallowed land is this

The earthy side of a hidden abyss

Now fully involved, poppies above the interred

Etched in granite, legacies in mere verbiage

Resting place for transient song birds

If only they knew the words

Trurh could unfold with stories told

Alas, in this place, even the poppies

Will not be given rights to succeed

Only their seeds, serve further needs

With the rest, withering into weeds.