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: The Bells by tfawcus

Strike words like bells
in blacksmith's forge,
each chime a shuddering hour
that fades;
hours of iron,
once strong and brave,
on warhorse hooves;

their muffled thud through damp, loam woods -
a sound that’s lost in russet ooze
as soldiers seek oblivion. 

At length, a few return
on metalled roads;
their ears still ring
with words and deeds
that will be told, and tolled 
in mournful carillon,

each widowed word wrung out in grief,
then spread across the world.

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