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His Sword
Frosted lies the soldier’s sword,
bound in duty to his Lord.
Men peering through the night.
Come boy! This is our plight!
Angry flames burn the star.
Shouts come from afar:
Onward, onward
Long live the czar!
To a distant willow he flees,
crying on his knees:
Lord, oh Lord,
My eyes see!
The night’s move is swift.
Spirits begin to lift.
But the soldier is a lifeless form,
solely His blade is warm.
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