We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sun-set glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flander's 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, tho poppies grow
In Flander's fields.