Jeg anbefaler diktet «In Flanders Fields». Diktet får oss til å tenke på alle de unge mennene som ikke fikk oppleve å bli fedre og beste fedre.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in sky The larks, still bravely singing , fly Scarce heard 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.
(Lonard Cohen deklamerer dette diktet på en gripende måte.)