In fields where crimson poppies sway,
Beneath the sunlit sky, they dance,
Whispers in the gentle breeze,
A tapestry of dreams and chance.

Their petals soft as morning mist,
A sea of scarlet, bold and free,
They hold the stories of the earth,
In silent grace and mystery.

The light caresses every bloom,
Each stem a pillar of the day,
In vibrant hues, the poppies sing,
Of summers past, now far away.

Yet seasons turn, and so they fade,
A fleeting beauty, brief and rare,
But in our hearts, their echoes stay,
A gentle, everlasting prayer.