A dozen rows of soldiers, friends, brothers, fathers, sons,
They dressed you up and sent you off, poised, positioned.
Everywhere you look, you gaze upon photocopies under one uniform:
Stripped of individuality
Welcome to the show,
here, we throw metal roses to the audience,
the corrupted sons of Eve, all dancing to percussion.
Backstage: the scent of death, blood and roasted almonds.
Final...
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