We dust the world, as hungry heaven lurches.
With heaving pounces, guns and greens blend, surround us.
Gold marches to the rhythm of death
will never return.
Soldier's brows are flecked with fear -
whispers unsaid in phlegm filled throats.
The world is still:
All hearts have been leased to the smell of sulfur,
fondling the odor of blood:
Who can win in such a communion?
All the gladness has floated down the river.
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