In Flanders Fields, the poppy's blow between the crosses roll on roll 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 at high. If you break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep. The poppy's grow, in Flanders Fields.