November 11th

My grandmother, who was born in 1904, used to tell me stories about the two Great Wars. She was born in a small village, at about 20 miles from the Ypres salient . Every night, she could hear the bombs, the windows of her bedroom rattling.
These pictures are taken a few years after the war, when she was already engaged (or married?) to my grandfather. So strange, a romantic picture on the ruins of a war...




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.