We rose from boys to soldiers.
I've got my rifle; you've got your memories.
This is where the battlefield separates blood from the bullet.
10 paces, weapons drawn, backs turned.
The shot is fired, ripping through the photographs.
There's a wall of smoke concealing your eyes.
I'm sorry kid, but I've got a sun to rise.
So here's your bedtime story.
The hero dies in this one.
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