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[ After The Apotheosis of War (1871) by Vasily Vereshchagin ] Skulls bleached in the sun With bits of dried flesh Picked at by crows. No eyes to see But the black pits Of empty shells. No mouths to speak But silent, gaping holes Was this their wish for life To die for no end? Here is no place of rest But a wretched end Crowded with others And endlessly alone. |
