the [great] march

Slowly but surely,
The rumbling, roaring,
Of a faceless warrior
Fades into the shadows.

He becomes a stranger
Of stranger lands,
Unbeknownst of the danger,
As the dunes are endless,
And the army turns spineless,
Because the sun is singing,
And the shadows are growing
As corpses they become.

One by One,
By One

The End

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