A war still hangs in their throats
And every word is a struggle
Cursed, with hate and hellfire

The nights still tremble then erupt
With broad arcs of red
Stalking, across the dark skies

Still among them
Are the whistling shards
That cleave and butcher
And rain in hot torrents

Until morning reveals
The craters of their youth
Overflowing, with the fortunate moans
Of survival

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