Tragic Blogs or
Those who do not remember the past...

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.

Each and every young man that went to fight that war had a story of their own. Loved ones. Friends. Enemies. Hopes. Dreams. Ambitions. Dreamers. Artists. Musicians. Storytellers. Craftsmen. Farmers. Men who had not yet become what they would be. Ground under the machine of war. That they had to go and fight and die in a lonely place far from home is a shame. Were we to forget that they did so would be a crime.