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Tags: war, dark, death, poem

Ratta tat tat,
the gunshots fire.
The smell of flesh
from a burning pyre.

A bloody spray
tints the mist.
A dead man clenches
his cold, white fist.

The cost of honour
is stained red hands,
the mental burden
of killing a man.

Ratta tat tat,
the gunshots sound,
and every last soldier
is on the ground.
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