The ninety-fourth minute was the last time the plane dropped the bomb:
it was the lazy voice of Vera Lynn, the "battlefield sweetheart", and it was "We will meet again";
from Szczecin in the Baltic Sea to the Adriatic Sea Trieste, from the vast Siberian plains of the snowy sea to the turbulent English Channel, where humans live, flowers are blooming, blossoming, pale, and time has stopped.
I don't know when there is sunshine, but the dark clouds have not dissipated yet.
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