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Kiss For The Rifle
Kiss for the rifle,
one, two, three.
Laid by a tree,
no head left, asleep.
Nobody here,
but everyone seeking.
One dozen weeping
among rocks and sheep.
High, next to the church bell
ringing lone tones.
Cast eyes over stone homes
under grey skies.
A wild bird glides by
and sees people scurry
in confused spray.
Police marksmen.
Bright yellow tape.
Cameras carried,
as reporters hurry away.
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