When first we stood remembering, in grey November air,
In deep, thick mires, fogs, mists of grief
Despite stiff upper lipped despair,
We heard not stately silence, but in those moments, brief,
Collective weeping, sobbing, communal disbelief.
And generations later, we hear again, today
The sobbing of a people, who think on death, the thief.
When first we stood remembering in grey, November air
Still in our simple innocence, we did our best to bear
The loss, and vast incompetence of little men in chief
Who’d used us ill and with contempt and acted without care.
In deep, thick mires, fogs, mists of grief
Red poppied lampposts almost glow, among each life, each
fallen leaf
To be replaced, yet not regrow, and freedom’s gone, we know
not where.
Yet still returns a sad motif,
Despite stiff upper lipped despair,
We needs must lay our souls bare
And weep once more
for what we’ve lost and seek some means to find relief.
For though a hundred
years ago, we bowed our heads in silent prayer
We heard not stately silence, but in those moments, brief,
The weeping of a nation. And shall we say those men who fought
may just as lief
Have given in, surrendered all? We would not dare,
Yet hypocrites, we will not fight, we merely dab a
handkerchief
As liberty lies smashed, destroyed beyond repair,
Remembering.
