Flanders Fields

I was just reading a book in which world war one is a backdrop. I think many people forget how horrible WWI was in the memory of WWII. With the book and its events, I had to brush up on my WWI history. All those photos of dead men, their sepia faces staring calmly into mine. And I want to cry. All those dead men.
And right now, Flanders fields is running through my head. It's a poem which does something to me whenever I read it, the background, the depth which its lines evoke.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row.

Dear bloggy. All those dead men. It was so long ago. But all those dead men. I know, I know, they're not the only dead. But this is me now, this is what is in my mind. I could be thinking so many things, only I happen to be thinking of this now.

Photographs are the devil. Look at their faces. They were really alive once and I am really alive now. No one is so different from another. Time is flowing inexorably on, but those photographs have caught a little bit. I love every man in those pictures. I don't know who they are or what they did but they are my guide to the real people in a terrible time.