A poem (slightly bleak)

Dust to dust

Soil to earth

There is no way out in the last years of the hero

Flowers are not flowers

Fog is not fog

Who will cry in the coming year?

One will be successful, and ten thousand bones will wither

A hundred years of fame is also deadwood

Why bother with names

Why bother with merit

The world of swords is still lonely

Who protects the wife and children at home?

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