They grow poppies in Afghanistan


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.

With sincere gratitude to the men and women who serve and have served. They include both brothers, my father, several uncles, my grandfather (now deceased), a few in-laws, and many close friends. Besides the physical casualties (50,000 Americans, anywhere from 60,000 to one million on Iraq depending on who you ask, 11,000 to 50,000 in Afghanistan) war has a tremendous psychological cost on all involved.

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