your dead cannot help you now,
they lie silent and cold,
hidden within the flowers and grass,
buried below the final whisper,
no longer concerned with wrong or right,
body count irrelevant,
enemies no more,
for them the war is over,
for you it has just begun;
the voice grows quiet,
the season of words is finished,
it is for this I have waited
all my life;
I am free.
.
.
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