POPPIES

Prisoner of war, was it with shame
that on that cross they carved your name?
The name of one who died in chains
not where the death of battle reigns.

Did they reflect upon your story,
lacking fame, devoid of glory?
Ever stopping to reason why
your life escaped you with a sigh?

Your dignity, a fragile flower,
crushed by those who had the power.
Icy winter winds that froze
flesh and blood beneath worn clothes.

Meagre rations, thin as rakes,
getting weaker, got the shakes.
Eating bread from shit-filled tanks,
yet to God you still gave thanks.

Escape became your only goal,
to rescue body, rescue soul.
Halleluja! Goal achieved --
Enemy bullet; soul reprieved.

Prisoner of war, was it with shame
that on that cross they carved your name?
The name of one who died in chains,
not where the death of battle reigns?

NO! You are praised with those who died
where canons roared and grown men cried.
Red the flowers that honour you,
a prisoner, but a hero too.


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