Where the Poppies Burn Red

Where the poppies burn red in fields of green

Lies the body of young

Lies the body of young Byrne, just barely eighteen

A hero, a soldier, a casualty, a brother

A villain, an enemy, or the son of a mother?

Banners fly, deep crimson and pearly white

Reminiscent of bombs and guns alight

What worth is a war with no winners?

Which of us heroes? Which of us sinners?

The mothers of boys, past borders and belief

Divided by war, united by grief

The day of his departure, the heavens wept with sorrow

With no guarantee of a brighter tomorrow

He bid his farewells with promise of return

A hug, a kiss, an expression to discern.

Deception and lies, vows falsely made

Why did Byrne don one final charade?

He watched as his comrades bled and withered away

Their bodies charred black and left to decay

So why did they fight, day after day?

For they had families to live for

And a country to die for.