The blood that drips

The blood that drips

The tower watched the battle end,

beneath a cloudless sky,

while wounded flags blew in the wind,

and tired soldiers passed it by.

A sword lay cold upon the stones,

where poppies dared to grow,

its silver blade still carried blood,

from someone none would know.

One crimson drop fell from its edge,

then slowly touched the ground,

the guns had stopped, the men had gone,

yet death was still around.

The tower kept its secrets well,

behind its walls of white,

for kings had watched from windows there,

while others died in fight.

They spoke of honour, land and crowns,

of victories proudly won,

but never named the mother who

would never see her son.

The blood that dripped belonged to him,

a boy not twenty-one,

who dreamed of fields and summer rain,

not dying by a gun.

His helmet rested near the sword,

his picture stained with dust,

another life had paid the price,

for someone else’s lust.

The soldiers walked towards the hills,

too broken to look back,

each carried ghosts within his heart,

along that lonely track.

The poppies opened one by one,

as if they understood,

their petals bright against the stones,

were coloured by his blood.

And still the tower touched the clouds,

while lies were carved in stone,

but on the ground one drop of blood

told truths the kings had never known.