In Flanders Fields

by John McCrae (1872-1918)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow 
Between the crosses, row on row 
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 it high.
 If ye break faith with us who die 
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
 In Flanders fields.

Otto Dix, zelfportret