Across the fields where autumn whispers low

 Mark Antony Raines 2026

Across the fields where autumn whispers low,
The iron harvest scarred the ancient soil.
Beneath the crosses row on silent row,
Lie youth and hope, consumed in bitter toil.
A generation lost in mud and wire,
Where hollow trenches swallowed up the sun,
And fields dissolved in deafening sheets of fire,
Before the bitter, hollow peace was won.
Yet peace was brief. The embers caught anew,
Across the oceans and the ruined lands.
A darker shadow stretched, a deeper blue,
Forged in the grip of devastating hands.
The cities wept beneath the midnight skies,
And oceans churned with iron and with fear,
While history watched with tear-exhausted eyes,
As grief outlived each agonizing year.
Now quiet winds sweep over field and stone,
Where poppies bloom to guard the nameless dead.
Lest we forget the seeds of wrath outgrown,
And paths where human sorrow darkly tread.