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49 THE MOTTO What peace… In this war with privation’s infantry battalion When hunger-bombs fall in trench bowels? No retreat What work… Here, where I’ve had as much honour most respectfully… As to deplete the ink in a million biros, Numbing to paralysis The hand that writes it? No surrender What fatherland… Wherein shoeless compatriots Bleed on the sole, walking On thorn-tarred ways? Carry on Is all there is to do In this power mockery from The leer of faces on state television, When scoffing voices from The national radio news Taunt you to the soul Carry on, soldier! my heart tells me For true doers live athwart the jeers and cheers Of spectator minds ...

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