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.

Heten Flandra ean vällyen on pääse Ristien ecen, räten ejan, Jeen os passe on ettesaike; I himil ein lärkäen ol—nöho möto siŋkehë—hikke Jeen or tykkien ejan niukko höre kyo. Jeen nyn tersë heen ese. Veŋkë takkai voro Levat, dämär on syyrat, kyhehejë sonnahalla on sehat, Jeen or i jeen on lyvat, i jeiso, heten Flandra ean Jeen on lehe. Höin ikka jeen os sötat on jatke ro: Sötkehejë hänen ellein teen ot hakkel on Verve, teen ol höho helte ko. Meen os pinda on pece so, tersë heen or Heten Flandra ean vällyen on vääse ë aava Caavoi no jo.