In memory of our ancestors, cousins and siblings who died defending our

In Flanders Field the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row by 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 your quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we through
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.

December 8, 1915
John McCrae