A chaque fois que je les vois, je pense à ce poème écrit en 1915 par John McCrae pendant la première guerre mondiale.
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
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
1 commentaire:
" Elle n'aime pas être arrachée à sa terre, alors il faut la contempler avec les yeux et la laisser là où elle doit-être... en liberté! "
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