POPPY FUN FACT
You probably know that poppies sprung up in their thousands on Flanders
fields after the fighting had ceased in World War I , but you might not know
this was because of the rubble left behind after artillery
The Poppy by Lily Hamen
This is a story about a poppy that grew from the ground while the war was still on , and it watched all the soldiers die . And , because poppies are the symbol of rememberence , it always remembered them ... Read
the story to the right to learn more .
I could hear muffled screams , muffled explosions . Everything you wouldn ’ t want to hear , muffled by the layer of dirt atop of me . Then , one day , I sprouted my little bud out of the silt . I didn ’ t know why , but I wanted to watch the soldiers . I cheered them on , no one heard me . But I kept going . I thought , someone would hear my voice someday , someone would hear my cries for those little boys , and old men . I had watched it all . Their lives , their stories , their deaths . And a few times myself , I had almost died . A few bullets had flown past my buds at times , but instead it hit another boy . If wasn ' t a human fighting this war ? Then why was I here , why haven ’ t I been trampled yet ? Why haven ’ t the daisy pushers crushed me with their bodies , flopping to the ground ? No . I had stories to tell . I had a voice that was to be heard , so that no one would ever forget those who had fought , those who did lose their lives . One day , I would make those boys , the men , those soldiers . Known . Soon , when someone listened to me , they could hear their stories , amd their immeasurable sacrifice . I don ' t want anyone to forget them . But I know for a fact . I will never , ever , forget them . For years it stayed like this . Me recording their lives , and saying goodbye the those poor souls around a week later . I watched their bodies decay . And then , I saw more poppies sprout from those bodies . Did I .. use to be a soldier ? I … don ’ t remember anything . I only remember a bright light , and then going cold . Then , one day , it happened . Someone heard my voice . By now , the war was just about over . I had no stories left to tell , except for my own . But I ’ d rather tell theirs . My story is not worth telling . Theirs is . Every other soldier I had known , was now a poppy like me . We were all cooped up together in what used to be no-man ’ s land . Then , a man came . His name was John , I think . He wrote poems about my stories , about the lives that watched end . But enough about my story . Read his poems , to hear theirs .
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