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Retreat

It is the hour of rest in the City of Ruin.
Birdlike, the wary retinue
scans the wind-swept plain
until, ears cocked homeward,
their warrior profiles freeze:
Slavic coins minted
in their avengers' eyes.

And oh how the barley-bearing earth groans
under such arsenal of arms.
There, over yonder,
in the midday sun,
shimmering helms
haphazardly assemble
in mourning for their owners.

Such winged words have been hurled
though they cannot convey the silence
of landscape after battle.
For it is then that the mystery
of Homer's purple waves
is revealed as the color
of bleeding aquamarine.

By Tatiana Retivov

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War Poetry

January 2017

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