The Soldier At Odds of Death:

Hearken my fearful friend;
Tis not lost,
Though tis not won.
Many found now lay amiss,
Whose shadows
Have yet kissed the sun.
How sweet it may have been to sleep,
The years
Far beyond you then.
Twas promised,
By way
The sun would dawn,
You’d kiss her face again.
Estranged—the life
Of migrant souls;
Is not fate for those
Who’ve lost control?
You see her eyes,
In wishful dreams,
Of home,
And wake at sound of screams.
Never so close
You felt you were
To death,
So far away from her.
Never was it quite so dark,
When he,
The sun,

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