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If the sound of blue violins is drowned
by the staccato march of booted feet,
we have only ourselves to blame.
Perhaps if we read the newspaper backwards
or visualize the world as an anagram.
It would all become clear.
We can only wish.
If wishes were horses than beggars could ride.
To a faraway land
where armies carry only bread,
bread that melts on our tongues
until our mouths fill with peace,
with green rain, with sorrow redeemed.
But today crimson angels fall, and we wait.
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