| He was red, like stew from mushrooms,
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| Red like oranges in the snow.
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| Mother joked, mother was cheerful:
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| "I gave birth to a son from the sun!"
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| And the other was black-black with her,
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| Black, like burnt tar.
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| She laughed at the questions,
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| She said: "The night was too dark!"
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| In the forty-first, in the forty memorable year,
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| The loudspeakers shouted trouble.
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| Both sons, both two, salt of the earth -
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| They bowed to their mother at the waist. |
| And they left.
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| I had a chance to smell the young in battle
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| Red furious fire and black smoke,
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| The evil green of stagnant fields,
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| Gray frontline hospitals.
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| Both sons, both two, two wings
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| They fought until victory. |
| Mother was waiting.
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| She did not anger, she did not curse fate.
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| The funeral went around her hut.
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| She was lucky, suddenly happiness came.
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| Lucky one for three villages around.
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| She was lucky. |
| Lucky her! |
| Lucky!
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| Both sons returned to the village.
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| Both sons, both two, flesh and become.
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| Golden orders cannot be counted.
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| The sons sit side by side, shoulder to shoulder.
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| Hands intact, legs intact - what else!
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| They drink green wine, as usual.
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| Both have changed hair color -
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| Hair became deathly white:
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| It can be seen that the war has a lot of white paint. |