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Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from falling hands we throw.
Written by
John McCrae
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow: In Flanders fields.
Written by
John McCrae
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 among the guns below.
Written by
John McCrae
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