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In Flanders fields the poppies grow
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Between the crosses row on row,
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That mark our place; and in the sky
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The larks, still bravely singing, fly
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Scarce heard amid the guns below
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We are the Dead. Short days ago
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We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
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Loved and were loved and now we lie
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In Flanders fields.
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Take up our quarrel with the foe
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To you from failing hands we throw
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The torch; be yours to hold it high
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If ye break faith with us who die
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We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
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In Flanders fields.
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