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by John Kent
I know of the soil
enriched by blood,
the legions are no more.
The wild grass grown over,
the birds flown down,
the tears now languish
in eyes of old.
The wind a whisper,
the surf a moan,
the bluffs are quiet,
the sea alone.
I know of the young
who have never heard
the voices under cross
and stone; never known,
how young they died
upon those silent battlefields.

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