Ninety years on, the Belgian government are building an eight-lane motorway across Flanders Fields, over who knows how many bodies of servicemen that were never recovered. I don't say the site should be left untouched forever, but two or three generations is just too soon.
Lest we forget, it's said. Some people, it seems, are already forgetting.
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.
