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A hermits rhymes.
#1
Clean blood become bitterest bile.
Lands, once claimed, reclaimed mile by mile.
The sword defends, the shield attacks,
As victory reveals all Meranthe lacks.
Thus ends the wars of youth, wars of old.
The swords traded for plows as graves grow cold.
Peace, ephemeral, is called forth, to come, to stay.
But mankind, to war, will always find their way.
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