I had a friend who flung himself away

to the corner of a foreign field,

Leave no man behind they’d say

He lays there still today.

 

Sometimes my injury cripples me

how no one else can see it,

I think of his limbs cast randomly, 

Of my anger and how to free it.

 

They buy poppies and wear wrist bands

their gratitude on Display, 

They think they see it all. 

But his blood they can’t repay.

 

While our torture it is hidden

Downtrodden and yes downplayed,

in the corner of some Foreign Field

Another wreath is laid.