The annual fantasy we take in Memorial
Wherein the war is behind us, now
And no one else need bleed to show
Their glory to the school tutorials,
Wherein the price is just the backdrop
of a show on pbs about the price
that love demands, once or twice
a century past, and our grief stops
with the rolling credits, play the music,
maestro, fireworks dazzle and doge
commands, where snow falls to this
cemetery old men visit to show
the children about the horrors of the past.
All of it a lie: the horror comes again; it lasts
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