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"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; & 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, & were loved, & now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up your quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold high.
If ye break faith within us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
in Flanders fields.

John Macrae (1872-1918)

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