I own nothing

Posted in honour of the 'Glorious 25th of May'

Faded Like the Lilac

Every year, they come to pay their silent respects to the seven brave men history forgot. They remember. They have to. Because nobody else does.

Cigar smoke twined with the pale, shimmering mist in the pre-dawn light. A wreath of lilac resting by a grave, the purple flowers dying by inches as the men they commemorated once had. They had seen the delicate purple blossoms bathed in blood, the fragrant stalks trampled by booted feet. The flowers in the wreath were dying already. It seemed appropriate enough.

They would remember until the lilac faded, and history forgot them as well.