! 11.11.: To The Fallen

Embattled in that mud - and blood-red poppies;
flooded trenches holding 'them' at bay;
life or death a coin's flippant toss-up;
deafening shellfire near by night and day -

for us, these horrors now are others' lives,
impossible to truly comprehend;
yet in my own mind's state, I recognise
these battles are still raging without end:

the mud, the clung-to life, the enemy
imagined - these, we strive still to invent.

Their thoughts, at death's door, lost to memory:
'I love you...' - gone, a family's content.

We owe to them to live a life of love
as if we were transfused from their own blood.

by Michael Shepherd

Comments (9)

'We owe to them to live a life of love as if we were transfused from their own blood.' Wonderful poem, I love these lines most,10+++
A fine piece- superb last line
Yes we truly owe to them a life lived in love Michael. This covers the horrors of any 'we and them' war which would unfortunately describe almost (or all) conflict. My admiration for your masterly usage of word. Fondly from Fay.
This is a truly great poem. Brilliant.
There's been enough killing, God knows. Flowers of all nations plucked and placed in grievous rows.
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