The wounds are like flowers opening,
Like branches revealing their sap,
But these flowers are torn flesh
And this sap is blood.

There is no symbol or imagery
Strong enough to hide this truth.
The truth is destruction,
The bullet biting bone,
The metal piercing veins,
The flame searing skin.

Afterwards, who can justify?
Who can give reasons?

Ask those who survive.
They can’t remember why.
The cause was pure and holy,
Now, they don’t know what it was.
Ask those who died,
They do not know at all.


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