Vrijdag
25
25
mei
In Flanders fields
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.
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.
John McCrae
(1872-1918)
We Shall Keep
the Faith
Oh! you who sleep in Flanders
Fields,
Sleep sweet – to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.
Sleep sweet – to rise anew!
We caught the torch you threw
And holding high, we keep the Faith
With All who died.
We cherish, too, the poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.
That grows on fields where valor led;
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies,
But lends a lustre to the red
Of the flower that blooms above the dead
In Flanders Fields.
And now the Torch and Poppy
Red
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We’ll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.
We wear in honor of our dead.
Fear not that ye have died for naught;
We’ll teach the lesson that ye wrought
In Flanders Fields.
Moina Michael (1869-1944).
Vlaamse Velden
Papavers bloeien in't Vlaamse land
Tussen kruisen
aan der velden rand.
Ze markeren de graven en hoog in de lucht
Zingt de leeuwerik dapper tijdens zijn vlucht,
Niet door angst voor ‘t geschut overmand.
Wij zijn de Doden. Vóór de wereldbrand
Voelden we nevel en zon en zand.
Nu liggen we dood in de avondlucht
In het Vlaamse land.
Hervat onze strijd met de doodsvijand.
Neem over de toorts uit onze stervende hand.
Houd hem hoog en vecht dapper en strijd geducht,
Sla in godesnaam niet op de vlucht.
Voor ons dan geen rust, waar we zijn gestrand,
In
het Vlaamse land.
Frans
Woortmeijer
