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Our March Pound the steps of rebellion into the squares! Raise higher the bank of proud heads! Spilling over in a second great flood, we’ll wash the cities of worlds. Piebald is the bull of days. Slow, the cart of years. Running is our God. Our heart is a drum. Is there a gold more heavenly than ours? Can we be stung by the wasp of a bullet? Our weapon—our songs. Our gold—ringing voices. Lie down in greenery, meadow: pave the floor of days. Rainbow, lend your arched shaft-bows to the swift horses of years. You see, the sky of stars is bored! We’ll weave our songs without it. Hey, Great Bear! Demand that we be taken to heaven alive. Drink up joy! Sing! Spring is spilled in our veins. Heart, strike the beat! Our breast is the copper of kettledrums. 1917 the years of upheaval ✦ 67 ...

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