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The Eleventh Hour, of
the Eleventh Day, of the Eleventh Month
of the Year 2008
And Nations of the Free
World shall fall silent in Honour of those who made the Supreme Sacrifice
in defence of that Freedom.
Whilst we remember them
all, let us keep a corner in our hearts especially for those who trod the
paths of Arborfield.
They shall grow not
old, as we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary
them, nor the years condemn,
At the going down of
the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them,
We will remember them.
Why are they selling
poppies Mummy?
Selling poppies in town
today?
The poppies, child, are
flowers of love,
For the men who marched
away.
But why have they
chosen a poppy Mummy?
Why not a beautiful
rose?
Because, my child, men
fought and died,
In the fields where the
poppies grow.
But why are the poppies
so red Mummy?
Why are the poppies so
red?
Red is the colour of
blood, my child,
Blood our soldiers
shed.
The heart of the poppy
is black Mummy,
Why does it have to be
black?
Black, my child, is the
colour of grief,
For the men who never
came back.
But why, Mummy, are you
crying so?
Your tears are giving
you pain.
My tears are the fears
for you, my child,
For the world is
forgetting again.
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