By poet William Stanford
This is the field where the battle did not happen
Where the unknown soldier did not die.
This is the filed where grass joined hands
Where no monument stands
And the only heroic thing is the sky.
Birds fly here without any sound
Unfolding their wings across the open
No people killed
Or were killed
On this ground
Hallowed by neglect and an air so tame
That people celebrate it by forgetting its name.
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