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My wail.. (not a poem)
I cannot drink water; it is mixed with the blood of young men who have died up in the mountains.
I cannot look at the sky; it is no longer blue but painted red. I cannot listen to the roar of the gushing stream; it...
I cannot look at the sky; it is no longer blue but painted red. I cannot listen to the roar of the gushing stream; it...
