Prose Lorin Bucur

The battlefield was red, tainted with blood, stained with sin, and there I was in the throes of it. Fighting and catching my breath, breathing in the humidity of lies, tears, vengeance. Wiping away my sweat. Throwing away my life to fight an enemy I didn’t know, for a King who didn’t know me.

My mind slowed and my eyes traced the path of countless soldiers before me. The world stopped for only an instant--to pronounce my imminent doom and laugh at it--then it resumed without hesitation. The clangs of the battlefield rushing back, the cries of men who would never lay their eyes on their family again. I cried a single tear, wiped it away, and began to fight.

The enemy stole our land, that was reason enough, wasn’t it? That was enough for me to risk my life, the one I had never treasured before. I had never lived until now, at the moment that I would most certainly die. So, I ran forward and cast my sword upon an enemy right as his sword slashed at me, severing my arm, my dreams, my life. And so I fell asleep on the comfortable bed of life and death, where many had lain before me, and many would lie forevermore.

There is no sympathy for soldiers, but that which lies in the home he has left. There is no second chance for those who choose to fight with their lives on the line. The souls of soldiers are stuck on the battlefield, the place they chose to be, forever wandering in their bloodlust, searching. Searching for nothing and everything, for life in death, for a way to escape the clutches of their own guilt and sadness.

The souls never do find what they’re searching for, yet the poppies are always there. The rebirth of their emotions and their memories left behind the earthly visage of their otherworldly desires and wishes to return to the past. Revival comes through their effortless beauty, the poppies blow in the wind, come season by season, and there they shall remain. Coming without warning and standing as a reminder for all who glance upon their deep, red beauty.

“your foot is stepping on hallowed land, a battle of years past, a burial for the forgotten”

We shall not sleep, though I never did get out of that bed, the one which drew you in with lullabies of peace, with promises of light. I’m not a god, I’m not anyone but a soldier, with a single poppy blowing in my memory. The whole world has forgotten, but I remember. Even as I sink further into the abyss, I will remember, and now, so will you. Lest we forget. ** some lines were inspired and refer to the poem-turned-song “Flanders Fields” **

Lorin Bucur