A mas honor, mas dolor.

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We bleed bright red, into
buckets lined up by the traitors
wearing smiles and spitting curses,
but we are not dead.
We are not dead.
A quien Dios ama, le llama.
We have been blessed, in between each
torture of our souls. Blessed, because
with each toast to having survived having our
souls dragged across shrapnel, we become immortal.
Regardless.
Amor no respeta ley, ni obedece a rey.
You will abide, and I will stand at your side.
We will become the stars that lay at the feet of
the gods who knew all along, that we would not rest,
until we could feel the back of the other
up against ours. Waging war. Fighting,
until the day comes.
Desgracia compartida, menos sentida.
So hold my hand. Place your head in my chest.
Your trust is safe here my comrade in arms,
and I will hold you up when you pray to fall,
as you will for me, when I call your name as we crawl
through the hail storms that tear flesh from the brave.
Because to fear, my friend, we are no slave.
Hierba mala nunca muere.

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