White Orchid fields

Why rests your home amongst dead leaves of orchids
In search of sustenance from rain
Green fields which once stood in palatial residences
Laid carpets like palms for kings and conquering queens
The weathered remains of empirical silence
Change our season to dust and decay
How majestic things used to be
We wonder through those memories of yesterday
Now fire burns in your heart of hearts
Indignant at wasted mirth
The hills force shallow echoes from fights of valour
Warriors resound in silent metaphors
Shields so faithful gleam bright in God’s sunlight
Our feet shod but blistered
There is no peace for such a wicked cause
Heavy mud prevents another attack
Yet there is no good news on view on horizons of distant lands
We fight for queen and country, God know why if no one else
And beats that heart encased in silver plates of forthright righteousness
Fighting battles that unrighteous spirits waged on us all
My sensibilities shot down in flames
Dead men carry no peaceful memories that will be told from the grave
The walking wounded wake up to new dawns
But still no rest
For minds that brood, corruption stains our victory with the blood of killing fields.
History marks our future references
Where white washed tombs reveal our engraved shame
The thought of our names remains in our loved one’s hearts
We remember our yesterdays with grief
And every day is a battle with one’s self
Year upon year the weeds grow thick around our naked ankles
Carcasses lay rooting like flowers discontented
The cross no longer endears us to grow
The faith no longer strong
Do you remember that holy place?
That unholy war?
Where our loved ones grew cold in love
Where raving mad official decreed and sent our babies off to die?
Scores feel prey to that wretched lie
And gave all for nothing
Ignorance and youth are bliss
3 score ten is what they would have achieved
If only they had the power to believe
Now men who had dreams
Rest in white orchid fields stained red like poppies by their blood
We reach high for new beginnings
But we are rooted in our past
No longer idealists, lost visions plague or minds
They rest in white orchid fields, stained red like poppies by their blood
They gave up their lives and will and died in vain.