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.


I stand each year at the cenotaph
And see my flag against the sky.
A midst a crowd of young and old
I remember those who died.

We gather there in silence,
To remember for a spell,
Each person there in reverence,
A red poppy in lapel.

We remember that many a generation
Has answered to the call,
To send the young from many nation
To claim freedom for us all.

To see my flag against the sky
To hear the bugle,pipe and drum.
I remember always why they died,
The price of freedom won.

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