Wildflowers

 

I knew where he died, in the Russian snow,

In some far off place, in a land of white,

In a field of red, in a nothing earth,

The final stand of a gallant man, who lost.

 

Searching there among the ruins, for a sign,

I chanced upon a field of flowers, wild they were;

Nothing around them, nothing at all,

A patch of wild flowers amid the wheat.

 

I asked this man, a Holy man, a passer by,

Why the brightness amid the wheat, the flowing gold?

Why the wild flowers, so endless bright, so fair?

Who was it that put them there, and no place else?

 

And the man answered; long years ago, in the war,

A man here fell, of golden hair and eyes of blue;

For one brief moment held this spot, this ground,

Then was killed; lost everything in the Russian snow.

 

We stripped his body, clothes, boots, all that was warm

For we were cold as well as he, perhaps colder still;

He was gone while yet we lived, in another winter storm,

Nakedness is nothing to the dead; clothes protect the warm.

 

Around his neck, a pouch, dirt and seeds, nothing more,

We stripped it with all the rest, finding nothing, threw it aside,

Threw it among the red and white of the Russian snow,

Dead things that lay all about, the golden hair and once blue eyes.

 

They, as we, ended in a common grave; never to be heard once more,

Never to see the sun again, to feel the winter at it's core.

The fighting ended for us and them; peace declared forevermore,

Nothing won and nothing gained; the snows continue as before.

 

But in the field, those wild flowers grew, those foreign colors;

Seems some Caesar bled and died; a something none of us ever knew,

Wildflowers from a distant land; a message perhaps, from God to you;

His boots kept me warm; and the pouch with seeds, perhaps he lives on.

 

I do not know of the man you seek, the war ended a long time ago,

Nothing is left of us or them, only the wildflowers amid the wheat,

The yellow and blue growing on the Russian plain, nothing else,

Voices, here before, are silent, voices here before are stilled, forever.

 

Tristan looking for his father, Christmas 2002


 

 

 

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