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The Battlefield

by Prospero Pulma, Jr.

Where the trenches lie and warriors die,
A graveyard stretches, waits for a name.
Without fresh flowers to soothe the sky,
The guns play their fiery game.

As dawn settles on the divided land
The warriors soak in the dewy breath;
Crying for home right where they stand,
They wonder how red will be their wreath.

The banners rouse the warriors to rise,
Shake off all their mortal dust to live.
They march with taut hearts but pallid eyes,
Wishing their kinsmen won’t till their grave.

Copyright © 2016 by Prospero Pulma, Jr.

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