We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
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 among the guns below.
Like restless birds, the breath of coming rain
Creeps, lilac-laden, up the village street
In Flanders fields the poppies blow,
Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from falling hands we throw.
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below
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