From up on poppy hill

High on the hill of poppies, they say, where no animal makes a sound.
No kids wandering off to play, just poppies everywhere.

If I remember between you and me, In that field of bright red flowers.
Like a crimson wave, a scarlet sea, hides stories full of power.

Because it was up on the poppy hill, you know, up in the red fields.
Where you might see the lonely widow as she often starts wandering.

They say those fields saw a lot of war, long before the poppy flood.
Where men fought like never before, and the fields were strewn with blood.

And the widow always sings a song, dancing for her long lost lover.
He will do this often, throughout the night, because they really loved each other.

He will walk through those fields so bright, just a shade among the red.
And each poppy stands strong, for the soldiers who bled.

The lonely widow sings alone, her once-loved melody.
And the poppy heads will dance in the moonlight.

Even in pain, she looks so beautiful, as she looks up at the sky.
The wind caresses her hair with its fingers, but still she doesn’t cry.

You see, every night she will meet the husband she loved.
And each night he would find her too, as he watches from above.

So they say that on the hill of poppies there is a ghostly and lonely bride.
She will dance and sing forever, where her soldier lover died.

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