Take Up Our Quarrel With The Foe:

In Flanders Fields The Poppies Blow.

Like Restless Birds, The Breath Of Coming Rain Creeps, Lilac-laden, Up The Village Street

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 Among The Guns Below.

Take Up Our Quarrel With The Foe: To You From Falling Hands We Throw.

We Lived, Felt Dawn, Saw Sunset Glow, Loved And Were Loved, And Now We Lie In Flanders Fields.