In Flanders fields the poppies blow
       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.

– John McCrae, May 1915

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