Do poppies grow still
in Flanders fields?
Do the crosses still stand straight,
row upon row?
Do the larks sing bravely now
to the silent guns below?
Do the dead still sleep uneasy
that the quarrels of the day are no more?
The foe is now our partner,
our love and loved ones are no longer buried
in Flanders fields.
The torch they threw, held on high
now rests in eternal flames.
Our quarrels are our own.
The faith was not broken.
Do their voices whisper still
through Flanders field?
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