It’s the moon shining down that betrays them.
Gathered in pools or sequestered in lakes,
Gentle ripples make their way along calm
Waters, bouncing off shores both artificial
And natural, to make intricate patterns
On the surface. Soon they will be destroyed
By cannonballs of human flesh; the shelling
Begins with taunts and laughter, and the end
Is an explosion of childish pleasure.
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