(A Terza Rima Sonnet)
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No noble cause on wings shall rise
above the bloody battle field
in full retreat and compromise.
No soldier born would ever yield
one inch of ground without a fight,
unless borne on his broken shield.
No coward stands within foe's sight,
instead, he stumbles to the rear
when shooting starts, he turns in flight.
No victory is ever clear.
Until surrender yields an end,
one cannot get to there from here.
No losing side can long contend
against a foe who will not rest,
nor win the peace they won't defend.
No cry like empty womb's protest.
No freedom without war's contest.