In Kyiv’s fields the sunflowers blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark your place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
You are the Dead. Short days ago
You lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now you lie
In Kyiv’s fields.
Nobody to take up your quarrel with the foe:
To us from failing hands you throw
The torch; begging us to hold it high.
But the Masked Singer is on, so is Netflix
So we break faith with you who die
The West will not shed its sleep,
though sunflowers grow
In Kyiv’s fields.
(DD after John McCrae)
