Those who loved duty more than they feared death came from the uttermost ends of the earth to live for evermore in the glory of death. Empty myths carved upon empty stone. The great. The glorious.
In honour of King and Empire, where the enemy of my enemy and the friend of my friend distinguishes little when equality will never be found down the barrel of a native’s gun or around the neck of a coward whose hands are forced to bear the burden of heavy arms.
I was here. Your biggest fear that no one will see. But we do. We remember your blood, ingrained in the soil of foreign lands never before heard of. We remember claret petals that bloom in the name of all those who struggled, fell and did not rise. We remember in the name of the mothers, the fathers, the sons, the daughters, the brothers, the sisters, and the lovers for whom the carpet of red is nothing more than a reminder of wandering souls, lost in lands far and near. We remember the words of the invader to the invaded. The victor to the loser. And know the meaning of senseless when you can no longer tell the difference between the two.
The final post in the darkness a calling to restless ghosts. Time shall not diminish your sacrifice, and though you may not grow old, it is us who will grow less weary with time. One hundred years is a long time not to forget. But it is an even longer time to remember. Lest we forget, but lest we remember what it is we should never forget.
It was never great.
It was never glorious.