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.
I once read a story ….
It was the story of a family. On each election day they would pack up the kids, no matter what age, and travel to the polling station where Mum and Dad would vote. Then they would drop by the local war memorial, grave of the unknown soldier, or similar monument and offer a thank you for their sacrifice that the family could have the privledge to vote. The parents always told the kids that they wanted them to keep up the tradition, and if there ever came a time when they decided that making it to the polls was not important, they were to come to the grave of a young soldier and explain why his sacrifice was not worthy of a small effort on their part.The story touched me very deeply and I recall it every Remembrance Day.
For today I don’t care who you vote for. Just vote. We owe it to them.
For today I don’t care who you vote for. Just vote. We owe it to them.
