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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