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| >> Static Item >> Poetry >> War >> ID #1023252 |   |
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The arrows are rapidly, piercing the air overhead
As I travel around the battlefield, And I notice the dead, Who were my men, My friends, Littering the ground. I know I will die, There are just too many, I have no chance of surviving but I promise myself I will die with pride.
© Copyright 2005 Just Dom (UN: dominique at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
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