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.
1 comment:
Wow... WHAT a combination you've set up. Thanks, N. I sat across from an Italian fellow last night at a book meeting, talking about Ortona and few other mountain pass-towns not far from there. He was a little boy at the time - and daily view still shaped by those events, both the horrible and the glorious, because both were brought to the fore...
Wow. Again.
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