Two tulips in a field amidst a strong gale,
of bugles and horns-
Shelter its petals from the breeze,
the sound of air raids-
The wind grows stronger,
the sound of thuds-
The tulips wear a crimson dress,
as he stares-
The sound of boots thudding,
thud, thud, thud-
And more thudding without looking,
the tulips are crushed-
One remaining petal still coated in red,
looks at her loss-
Millions of petals saturate the field,
the sound stops-
The stampede moves elsewhere to sing,
more tulips await-
The petals form a new field,
of pink not white-
The field will now be forever tainted,
what happened that night-
A father should not hold his son,
lifeless and gone-
But tulips are just a casualty of war,
no boundaries are drawn.