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1917
A dad in
France, on the Somme
misses his two girls
miles away at home
in
Melbourne with their mom
and her
sisters.
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Irene, May, Evelyn, Emma, Doreen, Vida
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.
Keep the torch held high girls.
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