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, and unless we forget what this day actually about, a day of darkest nights, a day of the true and brave, a day of the coldest years, a day when we say thanks to those who service our country, for those who are still standing, or those who are allowed to rest in peace, in Flanders fields, were the poppies blow.
(A Poem by Anth230 / Redplimace)
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