Rhymes of a Red Cross ManI look into the aching womb of night;I look across the mist that masks the dead;
The moon is tired and gives but little light,The stars have gone to bed.The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain;A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree;
I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain,The dead I do not see.The slain I
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