This is the valley
of the soldier. Skin
becomes the gun. Whose
bullet crushed your bones;
what decent man would
fail to mourn you?
There are doors
on every battlefield;
each one of them an iron veil.
You have gone through yours.
O! green tree lie down
your blossoms wilting,
unfortunate beauty try
your wings.
On a stone, cold
and black as porcelain
your name, your lasting
name.
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