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As wartime’s ending leaves behind
scarred traces of its furious hunts,
a melancholy cast of mind
endures this pang with hope ablaze.
Where flies the gold and russet morn,
as autumn’s languid trail departs
and cruel frost of winter grips,
when hardened heart against it stands.
And yet this fall contrives to hold
a promise tinged by coming home;
that onward creeps this riddled war
yet kindled gut lies spritely blazed.
For with this season's chime, at last,
one dream remains in dwelling’s glow
whose light will soothe his brittle wounds,
till country bound, a torment, hushed.
A Briand Strand Contest : Premiere 135
Submitted 3/21/2018
Copyright © Nette Onclaud | Year Posted 2016
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