In the soft hour of a late November evening
,When a clear moon is playing around
an old ash tree
A man of ninety two winters, is recalling the days of mud
nights of blood filled rivers
of the great war
Of Red Poppy tales
Within his forgotten youthful days
Alone, in his house of grey and sliver
Slowly, he opens an Oak box
gently he takes out
a metal
of painful French
summer days
A metal for saving
twenty souls
In another place
of a war time hour
The old man holds the metal
,closes his tried brown eyes
and recalls the days of Red Poppy
tales
Recalling iam of this man
of a war forgotten
but in my heart
iam to remember
my grandfathers
Red Poppy tale
Days
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