In Flanders mud, an English garden grows,
With neat little plots,
In tidy, numbered rows.
No soft morning showers,
Nor passing wind's sad sigh,
Disturbs these peaceful flowers,
Whose name will never die.
The price of freedom... I can't see theese fields without thinking to these men who gave their lives ;and i try to imagine one soldier standing at each place,what a sadness.
Excellent shot,vote