Weeping clouds above

Cold, sodden earth below.

Was this not the valley?

In which many a few passed.

Their footprints buried deep.

Their silent shrieks still echo

In the crimson-coloured poppy fields.

I hear them near and far;

Bleeding cries drowned

By the wailing wind.

Their tears seep through the restless land.

Flow freely with liberty unknown.

Like the morning dew,

They glisten in the soft, rising light.

Yes.

This is the valley in which many a few passed.

By Anisa Aboud

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