In Flanders' fields, poppies blow between rows of crosses that mark the graves of the dead, while larks still sing faintly above the guns. The dead recall that only a short time before they lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now lie there. They call on the living to take up their quarrel with the foe and carry forward the torch passed from failing hands, warning that if faith is broken with those who die, they shall not sleep though poppies grow in Flanders' fields.