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Nationals
You wear your flag like a second skin,
the colors bright, the threads worn thin;
And speak of victories long ago,
In voices proud, yet soft and low.
The tales are told, again, again
the triumphs carved in dust and pen;
The papers shout what you should hear,
While silencing what’s less sincere.
You count your coins, you guard your name,
you say it’s just a noble game;
But shadows stir beneath your cheer,
A trembling hand you won’t let near.
And so we stand on separate ground,
no shared horizon to be found;
Yet in the gap, I almost see
A kind of peace for you and me.
Copyright ©
Dan Bressers
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