If I am to remember,
what does that truly mean?
Does it mean to remember the guns fired,
to watch the scarlet blood gleam,
or to touch the spirits who are still alive today,
and hold them in high esteem?
If I am to remember,
what am I to forget?
For it is difficult to say I am sorry,
when we have never met.
If the poppy grows in barren lands,
where do memories grow?
The brain does not work like a field,
but poppies don’t either, I bet.
Where does Time go when it comes home,
made old by rust and regret?
poetpri 