The artist called it war,
And the poet, a silence
It could have been so much more.
Colourless, talentless too-
All that we abhor.
Strangle held, earth bound,
As that which tragedy wore,
The ruin and the writing,
On the dark unsightly sighting,
By the painting of a heaven,
Which we did long adore,
As every little creature,
Of contemptible size,
Sought every single feature,
Another might prize,
To tiny demon dynasties,
We now solemnly depart,
With vengeance on our breath,
On our brushes, pens and heart.
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