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 lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
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.
Those flowers grow in Lexington, Gettysburg, Cold Harbor and San Juan Hill; St. Mere Eglise and Nijmegen; on Guadalcanal and Iwo Jima, Monte Cassino, Bastogne and the Kasserine Pass; by the Chosin Reservoir and Pork Chop Hill. They flourish in Khe Sanh and Plieku, Beirut and Mogadishu. Fresh fields spring up in Tora Bora, Baghdad and Falluja and in every home with a star in the window.; fertilized by the blood of the brave and watered by the tears of the free.
To Beth and Michelle for more heartfelt remembrances and links to other tributes to our finest on this, their day. May we think of them more often.
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