In Flonders fields the poppies blow

Berween the crosses, row on row

That mark our place and in the sky

The larks still bravely singing fly

Scarce heard amid the gun below.

We are the Dead. Short days agosto

We lived felt down, saw sunset glow.

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flonders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch be yours to hold in high

 If we break faith with us who die.

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flonders fields.

John McCrae

Guelph (Canada) 30 novembre 1872 – Ypres 28 gennaio 1918