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I have watched you kill yourselves for generations.

You have called me many names.

Mars, Ares, Ashur, Ashtart,

but I remain one and the same.

I take great pleasure in watching,

your young and strong march out to die.

I see it all, the blood, the screams.

Nothing escapes my eye.

And I applaud you,

always inventing new ways to kill and maim.

I see it all, the finest details,

the young soldier’s blood ebbing from severed vein.

So much war, so much hatred,

it satiates my desire.

Nothing pleases me more,

than to see your world on fire.

Sometimes I fear this all will end.

That peace and harmony will reign.

What will I be, what will I become?

Without my lust for blood and pain.

But then I laugh,

as a rock is hurled against a tank.

It is your nature, violence embedded deep,

so vile, and so rank.

But you must excuse me,

though I would love to chat a little more.

My acolytes have prayed to me,

and I must deliver another war.

by Neale Lucas

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