He wrote a poem from a wood
And sent her violets, where once stood
A man, who had been shot and fell
She promised that she’d keep them well.
After the war she went again
To learn and read away her pain,
No book could help her understand
Why men would fight and die for land.
She kept the flowers he had dried
In memory of all men who died
No words could touch inside as deep
As those pressed flowers that she would keep.