Sons and daughters - would-be fathers, mothers funnel into
cannon fodder. Artillery shells blow arteries to hell, like fiery raindrops on
ants.
On the shore, the war is colder; derelict destroyers weep
bubbles from their bows. Beveled bulls choke on flak and flames. Sunken hulls
and bunkered hearts.
War is whelming, realms are burning. Times are turning for
the worst.
So tell us reverend. Can it end?
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