In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our 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 our 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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I think of this poem every day in the winter time, when I drive by a Veteran's cemetary in West Tennessee. As a Canadian, living in the US - there are no borders when it came to fighting wars that would give the next generation hope and freedom. When there are no leaves on the trees, all you can see are tons of white crosses in a line which seems like a mile, thousands of brave people who gave their lives so we can do what we want when we want. Thank you for sharing the poem....
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