Friday, 10 May 2013

Green Fields

I rested awhile in the warm winter sun during my lunch under this huge memorial of the glorious fallen and the celtic song sprung to mind about the green fields of France. The words which are burned into me are to man's blind indifference to his fellow man, and a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly? Did the rifles fire over you as they lowered you down? Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus? Did the pipes play the Flowers of the Forest?

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