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Hay muchas vidas dignas,
solo una digna muerte.
Bajo las balas, en esas zanjas quietas
uno cree en la bandera de Dios.

Por eso se sabe con tanta claridad
que a la hora unica y severa,
a la hora en que como una nube roja
el dia querido se aleja de los ojos,

la boveda celeste se abrira
frente al alma, y, por las nubes,
blancos caballos la llevaran
hasta la altura deslumbrante.

Alli hay un jefe en radiante coraza,
con yelmo de rayos estrellados;
hay trompeteros de alas igneas
llamando a la antigua fiesta de la guerra.

Aqui, sobre la tierra, tambien
la misma muerte esta clara y sencilla:
aqui el companero se aflige sobre el caido
y le besa los labios.

Aqui, el padre con su sotana rota,
enternecido, canta la oracion;
aqui se toca una marcha majestuosa
sobre el monton que ya apenas se ve.

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