Maybe we were just a soldier, a poet, and a king

I was the soldier, I fear. I am violent. I know that my soul is violent, but violence curbed by obedience.

She was a poet. They were sharp and harsh, but they were broken. I knew that from the start.

And he, or she, I do not know, was a king. For my ingratitude I am ashamed, he/she did everything for us. I admit that fault.

We did tear that city down. But at what cost?

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