Vergissmeinnicht

Remember me in the name I lived by.

Because this is as much about old barbaric wars,
as any of our modern wars, held at a distance in fear
or shame by those who imagine they live for peace.

Remember me by the names of flowers in the mud.

Because, in a figurative poppy field, as red blooded
as every casualty of war, collateral or otherwise,
lie forgotten innocents who have no names at all.

Remember me as one of those; then remember us together.

Because this is how we die, not euphemised or ‘fallen’
in the glorious fog of battle, not even half-remembered,
imaginary heroes. Yet, here we are, dead all the same.

Remember us as the ones no-one would protect.

Because our graves are stones among rubble,
random flowers of the blue-eyed dead, looking back
as they decay along with memory and cries for mercy.

Remember our names in any language you understand.

© Brian Hill, 2024

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A number of things coalesced in this: the state of the world, war and peace across it, the war in Gaza so many hesitate to call genocide, the innocents who die just because they were there, collateral damage to the red-eyed whims of others.

This is for the bystanders, the conscripted, the human shields, the dead, the voiceless and all the flowers that grow in the spoil of their remains.