Dear Ma, if this letter finds
Your gentle hands, your quiet eyes,
Knowing I have fallen where silence climbs,
Beneath a blood-rubbed, broken sky.
The wind here howls like wolves in chains,
Gnawing the bones of godless ground.
The trees wear coats of charred remains,
Their arms outstretched but never found.
Our prayers are whispered into mud,
Where poppies bloom from brothers' blood.
And every...
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