On the horizon and blurred in passing smoke
figures move into the distant fields,
and closer the dead battleground
springs red grass blades.

Here the poet silently tiptoes, grieving,
another tear-stained handkerchief,
counting dying gasps and stealing
last words meant for a mother.

And count the words,
Place them side by side
Dead grass
Here I died
Scorched mud
Missing hand
Cou...

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