It was cold on the square that morning, the kind of January cold that gets into the seams of an old coat and stays there. I was not a young man even then. I had buried friends under three different flags, and I?
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I am the steppe, and I remember. Boots crossed me under broken empires. Trenches cut my fields in the Great War. Tanks burned my villages in the Second. Borders moved, flags changed, and silence became another?
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