Where a rose tends,
A thistle cannot grow.
What then do do,
As red petals fall to mud?
A garden lie,
In happy hearts.
Birds swing low,
As hearts swing high.
The tear of rope,
Broke souls and swing.
Rain feeds the ground,
Oh tender Earth.
Strike of the seamstress,
Grants hearts unmended,
To disappear,
In their forever.
The garden shades,
First green then dark.
Petals crumbled,
With tender's love.
A garden turns,
From thus to else.
Only petalless,
A labyrinth doth replace.
How could a bird,
Flying so high,
Fall so far and fast,
Growing a thistle?
The bangs of boom,
Sound all the fields.
Dark green for mud,
Dark red for blood.
It is all churned,
And burnt and banged,
Both hearts and earth,
Do symbolize.
Help is naw,
But cries are screamed.
The one and only thing,
Our souls could ever hear.
They deafen us to:
Where eyes can only see,
The red of rage,
And love of hate.
Bodies die,
But never names.
Buildings grow,
Lest we forget.
Attempt of time,
To heal the hate of death,
Never leaves the scars of earth,
For: lest we forget?
In Flander's fields,
Where poppies grow.
In Flander's fields,
Where thistles should have grown.
