Old Friend
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Hoia Wallace , Grade 6k
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Poetry
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2015
Here I am standing,
I see the poppies grow,
I hear the wind blow.
I feel sad, it’s making me mad,
that I was really bad.
A bullet fired from my gun.
It killed a man that had a son.
But here I am standing among the dead,
row by row I see my friend is dead.
I sit by his grave every day,
thinking about the good old days.
We will remember them.