They made war gracefully among us
Humming softly of their dark revolt
They rose towers and barracks in whispers
Fell hundreds and thousands by whiskers
Stabbing backs every flip of the page
Pouring black inch for inch by the lake
They tugged at our feet in between those sheets
Weaving feats further along from all our fates
Sowing weeds husked into pretty seeds
Throwing beads underneath their stealth deeds
Should the sun have rose the next morning
Theirs wouldn’t have been one of mourning.
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