“I was a little seed when I first heard the bombardment. I was under the ground. Everything was dark. The bombardment woke me up but I wasn’t ready to grow. The bombs were ceaseless. They hammered above me, they shook the earth like an earthquake. Even worse. I was afraid of being hurt. I huddled myself up. All of the shouting and noise were disturbing me, I wanted them to stop. I wanted to sleep. I covered myself for a while, and finally the bombardment came to an end. I felt something in my body. I grew.
“Something strange was inside of me. The color of my petals changed from white to red. When I had a little view of the outside, I saw what was feeding me: I was filled with the dead soldiers’ blood.
“Soon I was out of the ground. I saw huge holes in the ground, grey air, soldiers fighting with violence and others dead on the ground still losing blood. The blood allowed me to feel what soldiers were feeling: the need to fight. I didn’t know the reason. I couldn’t understand, I just wanted to, I had no control. Suddenly the scene of two men attracted my attention. They were fighting, beating each other’s rifle, I heard the sound of the bayonets which were hitting each other, the soldiers seemed so tired, but they kept on fighting. I did not understand what was happening. Who were they? Why were they fighting? Were they crazy? I had a lot of questions, certainly, with no answer.
“I saw the soldiers fighting with all the remaining strength in body. Before they died, I heard them shouting. They were lying on the dirty ground with pity on their faces, they seemed like blaming themselves not doing their best, not winning the war, not returning to their country victoriously. They had still the bloodstained rifle in the hands, still wanted to fight, they didn’t want to give up for themselves or their country. Whispers of the name of their home countries came out from their mouths. I thought : ’Is that called love for country?’
“Much later, the field had changed a lot. I heard other sounds, they were different from the last time: desperate voices and hopeless crying. Dead soldiers’ families. Their faces were striped by tears, they were pale, just like the soldiers without life, without blood. I grew up, under the moisture of the soldiers’ blood and the tears of their family. I saw everything clearly. A girl was there, she was kneeling in front of a cross. She was young, I guessed the soldier under the cross was her father. She was speaking to him, I heard something about the situation at home, something about her mother. She said everything was good, he had nothing to worry about, she prayed for him. A few tears dropped from her eyes, ‘I miss you, dad’ she said. Is this the emotion the humans call love?
“The war was over, now. Occasionally, a man passing through the field saw me. He was dressed like the soldiers. He picked me up and took me to his desk. Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae was his name. He began to write something on a piece of paper. He wrote and edited, but he wasn’t satisfied. He looked at me again. Sad. I wasn’t happy, either. At last, he finished and read the poem aloud. At first I thought it was about me. But I soon realized it was about the soldiers that died by my side, the soldiers that fed me after the bombardment. I suddenly understood: war is cruel to everybody.
“Nowadays, people know me because of that piece of paper. They put me on to remember soldiers died in war. I hope I can show people the importance of remembering the sacrificed soldiers. They are part of our history and part of us. I will carry their courage, their energy, and their love all inside of me. But I will also carry the cruelty and the violence of war. I hear people sometimes ask each other the reason why so many people die in war. I can’t understand, either. However, I would like to tell them I have the soldiers inside of me, I have their blood and their soul. They are among us. I make people remember the soldiers. So people won’t forget them. Never.”
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