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In Flanders fields the poppies blow between the crosses, row on row...
sharkman
Part of a poem written at the end of WWI: The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Melanie_
I've heard this poem every year since I was a child, but the older I get, the more it affects me.