Ghosts of the battlefield

¬†Wandering ghosts hide whispering in the mist, Forgotten voices echoing across barren fields, Here only one thing seems to grow,¬† Macabre trees born from the fallen and the lost,¬† their twisted bone branches still reaching Longingly towards home,   each day a new a new crop is sown, watered with the blood of the innocent, warmed by the heat of

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