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Muffled drums bring slow marching feet
Around and across the waiting square,
Play past the halt and stop.
The Standard creaks to half mast,
A paused Trooper points his bugle
To pour the world silvered notes.
The ghost armies briefly stay
Their ever constant war
Then resume their fight
As the last note fades
And the parade falls out..
The Standard’s rope cracks cracks cracks
Against its pole on the empty windy ground.
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