Boots sunk deep in bitter clay
Names erased from light of day
A letter home, a trembling hand
The sky too wide to understand

The whistle sounds, the world holds breath
Between the mud and whispered death
But in the slush, a bloom breaks through
A crimson thread in shades of blue

Poppies in the mud, and silence in the sky
They never said goodbye, they only learned to die
Where bullets sang and young hearts bled
We plant the flowers for the dead

Shadows march in thunder's echo
Lads once laughing, now all hollow
A photo pressed against the chest
Of one who’ll never leave the trench

And yet, above this shattered land
The red still grows through broken hands
A bloom for every fallen name
A bloom that whispers, not in vain

Poppies in the mud, and silence in the sky
They never asked for glory, only not to lie
The fields are graves, the wind is hymn
The war rolls on, though none will win

The generals sleep, the poets write
The mothers wake in endless night
But poppies bloom where sorrow fed
A quiet crown for all the dead

Poppies in the mud, we wear them on our chest
For every voice forever stilled, we do our best
To hold their song, to guard their flame
And speak, when no one knows their name

Lest we forget — and yet we do
The poppies bloom for me, for you