Photo by Sofie Sharom.
Ranked by no rank,
Lie the fallen,
Testaments to a courage that,
Few foreknew until that time.
When something stirred in them,
Like a sign, but more,
That made each say,
There must go I!
Not all are here, just a few,
Links with comrades more briefly knew,
Then left beneath’ the crosses row on row,
That sleep they might, then wake anew.
Did we ‘break faith’ with those who died?
There is no wind,
The sky is grey,
The trees mourn their passing.
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.
