Ghosts of the battlefield

 Wandering ghosts hide whispering in the mist,

Forgotten voices echoing across barren fields,

Here only one thing seems to grow, 

Macabre trees born from the fallen and the lost, 

their twisted bone branches still reaching Longingly towards home,


each day a new a new crop is sown,

watered with the blood of the innocent,

warmed by the heat of an endless rain of fire,

watched over by faceless tireless black winged Gardners,

who reap the fruit born of fallen souls that blossom there


Whistles blow…. 

The brave arise from long self Dug tombs, 

That smell of death and suffering,

they March through the orchards of bone trees and bloody flowers,

courageously afraid towards the reapers welcoming embrace,


here the friend is just as much the enemy and anyone,

shall death come from the kiss of enemy fire, shell or mine,

or shall it fall from the kiss of thy own sides fury,


Yet they do not walk alone for here the dead gather,

the forgotten do not forget their cause they march onwards with the living ,

as brave in death as in life,

standing with their fellow soldiers for all eternity,

souls both living and dead that should never be forgotten…… 

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