The Poppy - A Song of Remembrance to Those Killed and Being Killed in Trump's War for Israel

Hat Tip to Doc Malik for the original article & song… I “Pro-Modified” it with Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen below.

This Year I Did Not Wear a Poppy - by Doc Malik

For the first time in my adult life, I did not wear a poppy this year.

I could not. I will not partake in a false remembrance ceremony designed by the very system that continues to sacrifice human beings through endless wars.

Last night my friend Marianne shared a song with me, a song so haunting and beautiful that it stopped me in my tracks. I wish I could credit the singer or songwriter, but neither of us have their details. What I can say is that this piece of music captures, more truthfully than any official speech or ceremony, the reality of war: the evil behind it, the false patriotism that sustains it, the blood sacrifice it demands, and the dark forces that profit from it, money and greed.

To truly honour the dead, to remember them, we must break the spell. We honour them by claiming ourselves. We honour them by protecting the living. We honour them by saying, clearly and collectively, not again.

False Remembrance

Every November we are told to bow our heads, to wear the poppy, to stand in silence, and to honour the fallen. But no one ever asks the most important question, who sent them to fall?

We repeat the ritual year after year, generation after generation, without ever breaking the spell. The poppy, we are told, symbolises sacrifice. But sacrifice for whom? It is not just a flower. It is the blooming of blood, the wound that never healed, a ritual of memory designed to renew itself each generation so that the machine of war may continue.

They tell us it is for freedom, for democracy, for country. But it has always been for control, for empire, for profit. Wars are not accidents of history. They are business plans, meticulously drafted by those who never fight them.

Remembrance, as presented to us, has become a ceremony of consent. Standing in silence each year, we unknowingly give our approval for the next round of sacrifice. It is a brilliant deception, one that turns grief into loyalty, and loss into obedience.

But remembrance should not be silence. It should be awakening.

To honour the dead does not mean to obey the system that killed them. To honour the dead means to refuse the next war. It means protecting the living. It means claiming our own sovereignty, remembering who we are, and saying with one clear voice, not again.

The Lyrics

We are told to stand in silence today.

We are told to bow our heads.

We are told to wear the poppy and honour the fallen.

But nobody ever asks who sent them to fall.

The poppy is not just a flower.

It is the blooming of blood.

The entry wound of the bullet.

A ritual of memory designed to renew itself every generation.

A cycle that continues because we have never broken the spell behind it.

War has always been a blood sacrifice.

Not for freedom.

Not for land.

Not for peace.

But for the ledger.

Blood is the currency that resets collapsing economies.

And the bodies of young men are the bond that balances the books.

Look at the word infantry.

It means infant.

Not a sovereign man.

A child.

Legally held as property of the State.

On your birth certificate, you are recorded as an infant of the State.

When you do not claim your estate, the State becomes your parent.

And a parent has authority to send its child to war.

This is not patriotism.

This is administration.

This is why the courts are banks.

The judge is the trustee.

The prosecutor is the creditor.

The clerk is the accountant.

The body is the collateral.

The signature is the sacrifice.

The same signature that binds you into debt is the signature that stamped the military tag placed around the neck of the man who went to die. Dog tags, the dogs of war the Soul Diers.

And here is what they will never teach in any school.

In the world wars, 176 nations were involved.

Flags, uniforms, languages, borders.

But on paper, in trust law, in charter, in treaty, they were all owned by the Crown.

So who was at war with who?

There were no sides.

There were only children of the State

sent to slaughter each other

by the same creditor, so they forget, so they never claim their estates.

The Crown financed both sides.

The banks wrote the bonds.

The governments signed the contracts.

And the men died believing they were protecting their people.

This is not conspiracy.

This is structure.

This is administration of the human farm.

This is how time is reset.

This is how history is written and rewritten.

This is how memory is erased.

And I know this not only as knowledge

but through blood.

My own grandfather went to that war.

Ten men from his own family line went with him.

Brothers. Cousins. Kin.

Bound by the same songs, the same stories, the same soil.

Only he returned.

He came home bearing the silence of nine men who should have lived beside him into old age.

Nine wives left without husbands.

Children left fatherless.

The women forced to raise the next generation alone.

This was not an accident.

This is the method.

Remove the men, and the women stand unprotected and overburdened.

Remove the fathers, and the children turn to the State for authority.

Break the lineage, and you break memory.

Break memory, and you break sovereignty.

Break sovereignty, and you break time itself.

This is how a people are conquered

without ever being told they were conquered.

And then we are told to bow our heads at the cenotaph.

Cenotaph. Senate. Court.

A monument not of remembrance

but of contract.

The names carved in stone are not just memorials.

They are ledgers marked into the land.

A record of the debt paid in blood.

And we are instructed to stand in silence because silence is tacit acquiescence , the necessary consent.

The silence the ritual and bond.

But remembrance is not silence.

Remembrance is truth.

Our grandfathers were brave.

Their love was pure.

Their courage was beyond measure.

But the purpose they were given was a lie.

To honour the dead does not mean to obey the system that sacrificed them.

To honour the dead means to refuse the next offering.

The lawful Realme still exists.

The living man and living woman of the land still exist.

The Estate is still claimable.

The Crown only rules the unclaimed.

We honour the dead by claiming ourselves.

We honour the dead by protecting the living.

We honour the dead by saying:

Not again.

Not for banks.

Not for crowns.

Not for flags.

Not for lies called history.

They died believing they were saving us.

So now it is our turn to save them.

This is remembrance.

Remember them, remember who you are,

Remember them. Remember who you are. Not again.

The Old Lie: Dulcē et decōrum est prō patriā morī is a line from the Odes (III.2.13) by the Roman lyric poet Horace. The line translates: "It is sweet and proper to die for one's country." Poem by Wilfred Owen

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