! 11.11.: To The Fallen

Embattled in that mud - and blood-red poppies; flooded trenches holding 'them' at bay; life or death a coin's flippant toss-up; deafening shellfire near by night and day - for us, these horrors now are others' lives, impossible to truly comprehend; yet in my own mind's state, I recognise these battles are still raging without end: the mud, the clung-to life, the enemy imagined - these, we strive still to invent. Their thoughts, at death's door, lost to memory: 'I love you...' - gone, a family's content. We owe to them to live a life of love as if we were transfused from their own blood.