awash in sharp, resplendent colors
the flowers grow on No Man's Land
defying the most ardent scholars
those seek, in vain, to understand
the shrapnel from misfired missiles
had long since sullied the good earth
no semblance of a rose or thistle
no one to plant a virgin birth
and yet they grow, a splash of happy
a limbo, in between two hells
red, crimson blood, a field of poppies
right next to unexploded shells
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