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War
Rata -tatatat, rata -tatatat, rata -tatatat
the sounds pierce the cold laboring day air.
Around corners and up stairs they come.
Rata -tatatat, rata -tatatat, rata -tatatat
bullets pierce splintering wood,
and shattering glass, turning the snow red,
as bodies fall.
Off with their heads with a wood ax;
accurate with every shot, a sniper's success.
5/13/2022
Copyright ©
Eve Roper
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