Selection 4 of
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Battlefieldsby John Kentenriched 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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