One of these days, the red will be scattered.
But it will not sprinkle the chests of the proud and the heroic. It will not dot the hearts of the ones who kissed their goodbyes, the ones who feel the ghosts of those that died, the ones who know what could have been.
It will cover the ground, the red. It will pile upon pile, hidden away from the eyes of the public. It will not be televised. It will be pushed to the corners of the room, the sides of the hallways, left carelessly on the floor. No songs will be written, no movies produced. It will simply fade away.
The red will spill from the hearts of the people, will fall without thought, will be forgotten.
The red will be forgotten.
It has already begun to spill in the hallways of high schools as students file out from assemblies, glad for the shortened periods. It has already begun to spill on the streets, lonely, abandoned, and isolated. It has already begun to spill in public transport, the stations dotted with specks from the first shots of battle.
Indeed, the battle has begun. Nearly a hundred years later, and history manages to repeat itself.
We may erect monuments and raise our flags, but the red still spills. We may force them to listen, but the red still spills. We may show them pictures and movies, but the red still spills. We may tell stories, sing songs, read the newspapers, but the red still spills. We will do all these things.
But the red still spills.
It spills here and in foreign lands.
The poppies still fall.
Once the last survivor reaches the end, the red will spill much faster. And on that day all hearts are empty of red, we have forgotten. And the red will spill again.
But there is a hope. Once the fighting ends, new red will fill the hearts. It will remind us to remember.
Remember the red spilled before.
Never let it spill again.
“Lest we forget”