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| Sons of Mars | |
| By andybyers | ||||||||||
| 02 August 2007 | ||||||||||
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My poetry doesn't rhyme very often but a martial theme seems to call for it. Sons of Mars, hear my prayer in rows beneath your banner there: these ugly ducklings you would seek to beautify, but cause to weep— you don't, by murder, make them swans. Just mounds to plant your standard on. O sons of Mars, the wounded sky of that land has few tears to cry. The muted skulls you liberate beseech you now to contemplate: does memory linger, faint but true, you once were sons of Venus too?
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