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sayl

 
we take refuge among the low hills of wildflowers, the place of  
a thousand journeys. it sings a song that we cannot hear; it brings
simple treasures that we cannot take. we were soldiers, no longer  
needed to march.
 
we were soldiers once, lured by the call of the bugle, the thunder of  
violence, & the mouth of the cannon, more ensorcelling than a  
woman’s lips. there were women who desired to love us, though  
they knew we made for the field of battle when the trumpets blew.  
they waited in their hermitage, made of silence & tears. they watched
a window that might frame their furied, broken angel, looking homeward.
 
in these low hills, the music, morose, breaks free at last –  
who put the sad songs back among the old songs…
 
 
(Art: Kelly Ann Thomas)
 
JohnFeddeler
Written by JohnFeddeler
Published | Edited 31st Aug 2017
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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