There was once a poet, long ago whose name was John McCrae, he wrote his poems after particularly hard days.

John McCrae was born in Ontario, Canada in the year 1872, why he became a poet I honestly have no clue.

John McCrae was actually a doctor and when WW1 began, they called upon him to serve for the General man.

During WW1 John wrote poems to always be remembered, but they should also be spoken aloud and heard.

Some go a little like this...

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...

And yet still some go like this, to honor the people dead we might still miss.

We may not have ever known them but we'll still see who they were, even if its only through written word

now we'll see a young boys grave

because some one wasn't able him to save.

later other poems written by him in the day

he had much to say dear McCrae.

My little lad for a soldier boy,

My eyes for tears and his for joy

When he went from Brecon Town,

His for the flags and the gallant sights

His for the medals and his for the fights,

And mine for the dreary, rainy nights

At home in Brecon Town.

They say he's laid beneath a tree,

Shouldn't I know? -- I was there to see:

It's me that keeps it trim and drest

With a briar there and a rose by his breast --

The English flowers he likes the best

That I bring from Brecon Town...

Cometh the night. The wind falls low,

The trees swing slowly to and fro:

Around the church the headstones grey Cluster, like children strayed away

But found again, and folded so.No chiding look doth she bestow:

If she is glad, they cannot know;If ill or well they spend their day,

Cometh the night.

Singing or sad, intent they go;

He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days, But with the night his little lamp-lit room

Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the boom

Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,And from the close-packed deck, about to die,

Looked up and saw the "Birkenhead"'s tall spars Weave wavering lines across the Southern sky

Or in the stifling 'tween decks, row on row, At Aboukir, saw how the dead men lay;

Charged with the fiercest in Busaco's strife, Brave dreams are his -- the flick'ring lamp burns low --

Yet couraged for the battles of the day He goes to stand full face to face with life. 

When john died in the year 1918, we know many of his poems had been seen. We also know because of people's wish for repentance, the poppy became the flower of remembrance.