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 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 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.
John McCrae
Between the crosses, row on 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 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.
John McCrae
3 comentários:
Ao meu tio avô Luis, que deixou 22 anos de juventude, numa encharcada trincheira belga.
O tio Luis do anónimo morreu para nada como muitos milhares mais.
Morreu a cumprir o seu dever, ao serviço da sua Pátria.
A falta de valores destes, desprezados pela escumalha que tem dirigido este país nos ultimos 36 anos, é responsavel pelo nosso constrangimento como povo e pela aberração que fez o comentário de cima.
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