You are the dead. Long years ago
you fought, and died, were laid below
the crosses, there in Flanders Field.
Ninety Novembers now have pealed
Church bells and speeches for the dead
by dwindling rank of comrades led,
to honor you – – John McCrae,
and all who stood in danger’s way.
Your poem — it haunts me now as when
I memorized first, at ten.
(So many children have). But I
— I hear the larks sing in the sky
and shiver at the dead below
the crosses, laid in Flanders Field.
Would you have thought of us the worse?
Have we kept faith? Is our torch bright?
Or are we too ashamed to fight,
call evil false or good things true
like those young men who stood with you
to Flanders Field.
We are the living – you are the Dead,
not for you the poppies red,
blooming today for us below.
This ragged torch is burning low
but brave young men can still be found
hallowing some foreign ground
with earnest blood, while I at home
peck away at my short poem.
Lt. Col. John McCrae-
remember us, this November day.
Reposted from last year, in memory of John McCrae and all those who have died for honor, country, and freedom.