In the rows of granite
Amongst the poppies
Near the fields of Flanders
The headstones seem to grow
Each one a memory lost
A name stares back at me
Identical except the year
The whimsical sound of bag pipes
Drifts on the air
Amazing Grace Calls
A lonely mournful sound
As the sun dips on the horizon
The silence that follows is piercing
In the rows of granite
Amongst the poppies
Near the fields of Normandy
The headstones seem to grow
Each one a memory lost
A name stares back at me
Identical except the year
The lonely trumpeter plays
Taps wafts on the breeze
As the sun kisses the horizon
The silence that follows is piercing
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