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With tired sad hearts, soldiers go back to their sweethearts. War, at last, somewhere looks for a bit of shadow. Everybopdy cares not to be misunderstood. It is the end, nothing would be misconceived. We have victory on our breasts. Shoud things be misunderstood ? Our breath is a gold medalion. But it is put on our own breasts and on those of our foes. Everybody is still breathing. Nobody had lost nothing. Should things be misunderstood ? A man is reduced to mere nothing in front of his sweetheart. What if I hadn’t had you inside my heart ? Shall I have it in one piece once again ? I wanted so eagerly not to cause bereavement anywhere. I wanted not to cause it in your heart so that I made, of them, so many. Should anything be misunderstood ? I am here with a new worthwhile gold medalion. I am here near you, not entirely a hero. But I live. Victory is oddly offered to those who are buried. I thought only of you so that I was but causing bereavements elsewhere. Here, I try to give things a meaning. And all of us, at the end, as we still breath understand that we have just, all of us, one foe : nothing.



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