Red and white litters the ground.

Footsteps make no sound.

In this month of April.

Upon this secluded hill.

Underneath a golden tree.

Looking at you searching for me.

A quiet breeze that whispers.

Begging for silent listeners.

Mothers fears igniting.

As sons and fathers leave for fighting.

Loved ones quickly dying.

Everyone is in pain and crying.

Black smoke billows out.

Wounded men cry and shout.

Final letters come from the fallen.

Those left at home barely talking.

Why must man kill?

Just to be buried on that hill.