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The epaulettes shone brightly on olive green

His badges worn old but shinier than eyes of a new born

Echoes of rifles and battle cries clothed his gait

A wounded lion stalking as the coy little prey awaits

He lurks in the centres of great foliage

A great yellow corneal vision

His flustered heart ignoring his rationales admonition

Doused in the sweated thick skin of war

Looking desperately to add one last scar

A mast of nebulous light shatters his sight

It is as if even his lord is savouring every instance of his plight

Spitting in his begging hands

What does Almighty care of a mere mortal's plans

He breathes fire bright and blue

Time of essence he wastes few

He raises his brand to the skies

For his prey only end lies

And carves a coat of arms

From the ichor licked thorns

For mortals and immortals all shall fall tonight

Even ares himself could not best him in a fight


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