January, 1918
In Flander's fields, the poppies blow...
Beneath the crosses, row on row...
I approach the grave with silent footsteps that make no noise on the snow, the snow that matches my skin and the gown I wear. The cold does not deter me; I don't feel its bitter chill. Kneeling down before the frost-covered granite slab that bears his name, I run my fingers across the words.
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly.
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
"It's been nineteen years since our last meeting," I whisper to the stone. "I missed you; We've been separated far too long." There are others in this graveyard, but they take no notice of me. "You fought heroically. Did you do it for me? I watched you. I was there with you, and now I shall wait for you to rejoin me again."
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.
A few cold tears drip down my porcelain cheek. They fall on the granite and instantly freeze. "Do you remember..." I choke, "when we met? My gift is my song and this one's for you." I sing softly, caressing the letters. "How wonderful life is now..." I cannot finish; I am overcome with emotion. I kiss the stone softly and sit in silence, watching the falling snow.
I believe I sit for hours, waiting for everything and waiting for nothing. My hair is covered in the glittering flakes of snow that have been continually falling from the gray clouds above. "How wonderful life is..." I sing over and over. "One day I'll fly away; my gift is my song...how wonderful life is..."
"Now you're in the world."
There you are, standing behind me, looking older and world-weary. But it is you. I am frozen to the ground for a moment, unable to speak, unable to rise. "Satine..." you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
I stand and on feet that seem to fly, I run to you. With my touch, your years melt away and you become what you were when we were young and desperately in love. Before sorrow and war touched your life. You are now just a penniless poet and I am happy.
"In Flander's Fields" was written by John McCrae.
In Flander's fields, the poppies blow...
Beneath the crosses, row on row...
I approach the grave with silent footsteps that make no noise on the snow, the snow that matches my skin and the gown I wear. The cold does not deter me; I don't feel its bitter chill. Kneeling down before the frost-covered granite slab that bears his name, I run my fingers across the words.
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly.
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
"It's been nineteen years since our last meeting," I whisper to the stone. "I missed you; We've been separated far too long." There are others in this graveyard, but they take no notice of me. "You fought heroically. Did you do it for me? I watched you. I was there with you, and now I shall wait for you to rejoin me again."
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.
A few cold tears drip down my porcelain cheek. They fall on the granite and instantly freeze. "Do you remember..." I choke, "when we met? My gift is my song and this one's for you." I sing softly, caressing the letters. "How wonderful life is now..." I cannot finish; I am overcome with emotion. I kiss the stone softly and sit in silence, watching the falling snow.
I believe I sit for hours, waiting for everything and waiting for nothing. My hair is covered in the glittering flakes of snow that have been continually falling from the gray clouds above. "How wonderful life is..." I sing over and over. "One day I'll fly away; my gift is my song...how wonderful life is..."
"Now you're in the world."
There you are, standing behind me, looking older and world-weary. But it is you. I am frozen to the ground for a moment, unable to speak, unable to rise. "Satine..." you say, your voice barely above a whisper.
I stand and on feet that seem to fly, I run to you. With my touch, your years melt away and you become what you were when we were young and desperately in love. Before sorrow and war touched your life. You are now just a penniless poet and I am happy.
"In Flander's Fields" was written by John McCrae.