As I rested my head 'neath the blanket of the starlit sky,
My mind took me back to a time that mankind wishes never was.
The First Great War it was called,
Yet a time of rest it might have been, for the soldiers lay finding some joy amidst the death and glory.
His eyes fell upon me, that unknown soldier I had read in prose and poetry.
Like a friend of old, he took my hand and lead me the fields where poppies bloomed.
I asked him, "What made you go on?"
He smiled and told me the tale of the poppy.
The poppy, he said, had a message.
A message so strong that it the power to create love and rattle hate.
The poppy, he said, made death alive and beautiful.
It is the same message that he fought for, the message of hope that shone in his darkest hour.
Hope for the world that will come to be after the storm is over and the battle is forever won.
I weep, and then weep some more.
The battle is never over, I try to say, but the figment of the glorious past is already gone,
As my eyes awake to the starlit sky once again.
O soldier, hearken to me, I cry out.
Like the poppy that made death alive, come back to us one last time,
To save us as our kind edges close to the catastrophe of hate once more.
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