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.
John McCraeAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Nationality: canadian
- Born: November 30, 1872
- Died: January 28, 1918
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I'm unaware that my feet are moving to the table until I'm inches from the holograph. My hand reaches in and cups a rapidly blinking green light. Someone joins me, his body tense. Finnick, of course. Because only a victor would see what I see so immediately. The arena. Laced with pods controlled by Gamemakers. Finnick's fingers caress a steady red glow over a doorway. "Ladies and gentlemen..."His voice is quiet, but mine rings through the room. "Let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!
Suzanne Collins