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.
The poem is moving
Their sacrifice in vain
The story is noble
They died from disdain
They died for the profits
Of the ruling elite
Their hearts are the symbols
Of the gilded age
Remember, oh traveller,
Be weary and still,
Don’t tell your own children
That war is a thrill
For if they miss it
They’ll do it again
On some far off field
They’ll die in much pain
If History serves us
To guide us atrue
Most people die lonely
Regret it, adieu
We seem to forget it
Too often it seems
That life is alas,
Too short, bleak and blue
So, you see mighty reader
How easy’t can be
To write a short poem
That’s easy to please
Götterdämmerung 