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the echo of gunfire,
across distant plains.
the sky ripped with color
as is time itself turned.
the thunder of a leaf
that clung for too long...
falling as if suspended
by breath.... the silent stare,
then turn to the door;
stepping away, as if to fly.
nothing left behind....
not even remorse...
what's done is done,
he takes his final bow!
leaving the sounds of living
for the dead to discern.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem