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In Flanders Fields, The poppies blow
Between the crosses, Row on Row;
That mark our place, and in the sky
The Lark still bravely singing, flies
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.
We are the Dead, short days ago;
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow.
Lived and were loved and now we lie:
In Flanders' Fields.
Take up Our Quarrel with the Foe;
To you with failing hands we throw
The Torch; be yours to hold it high,
Lest ye break faith with we who die.
We shall not rest, though poppies grow;
In Flanders Fields.
ACK!
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