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After War
There are no poets in war.
Poppies are trampled and not gazed
in fields where young men lay
by old men stones.
There's no you, no youth not stolen,
no sweetheart muse for...
Poppies are trampled and not gazed
in fields where young men lay
by old men stones.
There's no you, no youth not stolen,
no sweetheart muse for...
