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All Was Quiet In The Valley Below
In The Hills The War Raged Ever On.
Sheets of cloud hang low on the horizon.
Smokes from charred things -- burning buildings, bodies --
Cloak the greens of lowland Spring in argent.
A pregnant rill absconds for some far sea.
A soldier, stale, reclines against a scarp
With the nape of her neck drowned in caustic sweat,
Stares; she's bent, angled stiffly at the hip,
Grit lines her eyelids and her tears no longer fall.
Her hands, frost-bit, entombed amidst cinders,
She's still as an hour-glass supine, lifeless.
Cradle her warmly, Nature; she is cold.
All is quiet in the valley below;
Here in the hills the war rages ever on.
She blinks. Grace holds yet the high-country.
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