In Flanders Field the poppies blow

Between the crosses, row on row, that mark the place; and in the sky the larks, still bravely singing, fly scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago we lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now we lie in Flanders Fields.

Take up your quarrel with the foe: to you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high, if ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders Fields.


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