In Flanders Fields
Normalt er jeg ikke så meget til poesi og sådan men jeg læste forleden dette digt der handler om 1 verdenskrig og jeg synes det er utroligt smukt!
Det er skrevet af John McCrae, en læge der døde af lungebetændelse og meningitis mens han arbejdede i et felt-hospital i Belgien.
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
Det er skrevet af John McCrae, en læge der døde af lungebetændelse og meningitis mens han arbejdede i et felt-hospital i Belgien.
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