Every year they march here,
Pressed in serried ranks,
And though each time there should be,
Fewer there within the lines,
Still new faces appear,
A fresh crop springing,
Like the poppies at their breast,
To walk with measured tread,
A ringing step that tolls;
Slow as the dead bell.
The old men with their eyes,
Clouded by memories,
For comrades past.
Lives that were paid for,
By politicians with their,
False tears and empty rhetoric.
Who still mouth platitudes,
To fill the void when they should think.
While all are told to honour,
Exhorted to remember those long passed,
To think of them,
To weep for them.
And though we do this with full pride;
There are some few,
Who remember friends,
In fields more recent,
Bitter tears and heavy hearts,
mourning for their own loss.