In Flanders fields, few poppies grow,
but crosses still stand, row on row,
to mark the place where young men lie
beneath trimmed grass and sunny sky,
so different from that long ago.
100 years have now passed by;
some carry still the torch held high.
Though troubled, still we love our land,
so serve in ice or hills or sand,
to keep the faith with those who’ve died
in foreign fields.
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