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 our quarrel with the foe:
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.”
My father taught me this poem as a child. I can still recite it. At the 11th hour, on the 11th day, of the 11th month in 1918 the most horrendous war the world had seen up to that time ended. Unless you are a military historian, most people do not understand the…
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