In Flanders Field, poppies blow between the crosses row on row that mark the dead's place, while larks still bravely sing in the sky, scarcely heard amid the guns below. The dead recall that only a short time ago they lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved, and now lie in Flanders Field. They call on the living to take up their quarrel with the foe and accept the torch from their failing hands, urging them to hold it high and keep faith with those who died.