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Civil

Pop! A rumble in the valley as two rows
sunder through their thunder and their volleys.
But here, upon their hills, two men repose,
and mumble of their blunders and their follies.

"Have they forgot how long, how hard we fought,
creating this a place to call their own?
They spit in our works face with this onslaught,
and steal our song and bard, to call their own." 

"We made this place so that all this may be,
that men may choose to define how they act. 
Now we win, and we lose, each in degree.
Like us, they chose the frontline as their tract."

Silence. Each man climbed down into his grave.
Two more rise to judge how their kids behave. 

Artist's Hands (Written in Gallery 250 at the MFA Boston)