Three silent shapes against the breeze, Standing still on the edge of time, With windows like heavy, shuttered eyes O’er a field of poppies and sighs. The earth burns with an ancient red, While the sky, in its weary green, Rests on the roofs like a secret unsaid. No footstep falls, no voice is heard, Only the wait for those long gone, Midst barren trees with blossoms of blood.