When guns fall silent on the eleventh hour,
And poppies bloom in fields once stained with red,
We pause to honour those who gave their power,
Their youth, their dreams — the countless nameless dead.
The armistice, a fragile thread of peace,
Stitched wounds of nations torn by bitter strife.
Though signed in ink, its promise must not cease
To guard the precious sanctity of life.
Each year we stand, in reverent reflection,
As bugles sound their haunting, mournful call.
We vow to learn from history’s direction,
Lest future generations also fall.
In silence deep, we pledge to ne’er forget:
The price of peace — our everlasting debt.
Source: 1
Bob Lynn / 11-Nov-2024
