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Don’t warn me about casualties. 
Don’t describe severed limbs, burst eardrums and life-red blood trickled into pools and crevices. 
Don’t picture me the flash, brighter than the afternoon sun, the shock pressure in the air, the loudness of the crack-thud, the sudden rising plume. 
Don’t conjure up the sound of sirens, the rush of trolleys, the beeps of life support. 
Don’t tell me of kids made orphans, mothers burying sons, men mourning women. 
Don’t, for God’s sake, personalize everything

    Graham Buchan 


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