Photo: Andrea Vail
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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 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. |
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World War I Vow no quarter, boys! After the wily, hostile Turks at Gallipoli, now fell the hard, piratical Hun. The Hindenburg Line, the Spring Offensive, the Siege of Antwerp, The Ardennes, Artois, Belleau Wood, Hulluch, Liège, Loos, Neuve Chapelle, Passchendaele, the Somme, Verdun, Ypres ... That blood-red sky is insufferable sorrow for the dead and dying. Wildflowers for the steadfast fellows who died boldly like knights. Their widows, waifs and friends gasp and weep. God knows what a waste of men. Christ, why? |
(by Jason Lofts)
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