Staggering beside the carts, like dull warhorses,

we stumble along endless tracks and mud-souped ditches,

always stooped, intent upon the next step.

Rattling behind, grisly chains of disarticulated bones,

tied by tendons and ligaments, trail beyond past horizons,

 a century of war.

Rainbows always cry.

The holly bears a bloody fruit.

All victors ethically vanquished.

But...

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