We, glorious dead beneath the mournful skies, did march in ranks where now poppies softly weep, to battles where the iron tempest flies, and from death's cold hand our fleeting lives would reap.

We left behind the warmth of hearth and kin, to face the horrors that no heart should know, in trenches where the starlit night grew thin, and dreams of home were buried in the muck.

Yet in the midst of carnage, hope did bloom, A longing for the fields where we once roamed, Our spirits yearning for a quiet room, For hearths where gentle voices serenade.

Though we are lost, our sacrifice remains, A testament to valour, born of pains,

We, Glorious Dead.

-M. S Chandler