Taking shelter from the truth
With yet another bullet
The little men
Made out of paper notes
Beheaded by the child
Unable to understand
The language
Of the poem jotted down
By an English woman
During a farewell afternoon
By the banks of the river
No longer watery of frost
Laden with a corpse
Followed by another
In unison
A new song
Not for anyone dead
But for the mightiest deed
Of our son of man
Of our bullets
Our children
Of bayonets
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