For Me
A manicured lawn
Devoid of leaves
Meets the summer dawn
By Bapaume near Ypres.
On that field, alone,
Where poppies grow,
Lie men, far from home,
Who died long ago.
One of those men
Does not have a name.
An unknown man,
A little known grave.
If I could meet him
What would I say?
Why did you go?
Why didn’t you stay?
Then simple as this
He’d say to me:
‘I died for you,
so you could be free.’
