In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses row on row that mark our places in the sky the larks still bravely singing fly. Scarce heard amid the guns below After the war is done, no one really things about the soldiers that died. The sacrified themselves for this country. 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. It’s not just these silhouettes who are coming and fighting for you. It’s like real people who have family and friends. Take up our quarrel with the foe To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours so hold it high if ye break faith with us who die. War isn’t some beautiful thing that’s over in a few days. It’s blood and tears and pain and death. We shall not sleep, though poppies grow in Flanders fields. War is hard and it’s tough and it kind of never ends and we can never achieve that peace that’s just above us.