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by John Kent
Nearby the legless soldier
grows a purple flower.
It did not hear the shellbursts.
Nor does it hear
the screams of the wounded
or the silence of the dead
that cluster around it.

It grows straight and strong,
tasting the nectar
of fading dewdrops
as they fall into the blood
that relentlessly seeps toward it.

In the sun that gives it life
it blooms in brilliant glory
while all around it
the dead quickly wither
under a warm, blue sky.

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