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  • Writer's pictureTuur Verheyde

Lost Key

Towns abound where the soil sobs

In sullen sediments of hidden death.

In Ieper, we let the dead sprout up

From obscured memorials and hug

The pavement as supine stems

Of winter bronze.

Where they are, is where they lived

Or fell, these townsfolk and refugees,

Whom the Great War plucked from

Our home, whom bullets, shells and

Bombs tore from the living fields.

When you visit our town, detach

Your regard once in a while from

The bustle and spires, look down

To greet those clasped by a paved

Peace. And pray the claws of War

Claim naught more.

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