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In Kyiv’s fields the sunflowers blow

Between the crosses, row on row,

That mark your place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

You are the Dead. Short days ago

You lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved, and were loved, and now you lie

In Kyiv’s fields.

Nobody to take up your quarrel with the foe:

To us  from failing hands you throw

The torch; begging us to hold it high.

But the Masked Singer is on, so is Netflix

So we break faith with you who die

The West will not shed its sleep,

though sunflowers  grow

In Kyiv’s fields.

(DD after John McCrae)

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