On Flanders fields, bright red with poppies;
Are rows upon rows of little white crosses.
The slopes of the undulating Somme;
Bear the sorrow of war a hundred years on.
Regiments of white crosses neatly in line;
A reminder of life cut down in its prime.
Row upon row of little white crosses;
A century passed, mark a generation of losses.
Beneath the carefully tended sod;
Lies the flower of youth known only to God.