Topics: Java Blog
In Flanders fields the poppies grow beneath 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…
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