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somecanuckchick dot com: 11/11/11

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 . . . → Read More: somecanuckchick dot com: 11/11/11