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the final war



fire has razed the forest,

the grievances lie in ashes —

choruses of snapping flames

were everywhere.


chatter and footsteps,

hushed in a wink,

as all and I —

were warned by the stars.


the spirit of war, born of ambition,

cares not about banners —

but for the sound of dull steel

scraping across raw bone.


the drums are dead

and the bleating is stilled

and I can see only the tears —

lifted away by the wind.


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