Now that we are few, we move almost like brothers, and like brothers, we quarrel, sulk and groan. The struggle is a painful path of curses But victory a white road glittering with politeness, with white smiles on empty white faces with flattery oiled by endless white lies. Why, then, in the glittering midst of triumph, Do we remember these sweaty sullen faces So painfully—why does their memory shine sweeter than all those white smiles?
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