Every time I see another war about borders and pride, I smell the same old rot. Leaders in clean rooms talking about sacrifice while peasants die in ditches — that hasn’t changed since 1870. They dress it up with flags and slogans, but it’s always the baker, the farmer, the clerk who gets the bullet, not the man signing the order. Same as Verdun, same as Indochina: the powerful forget, the poor bleed, and the medals get polished for parades. You don’t need a historian to see it — just wake at three thirty in a dying town and listen. The war never left. It just changed shoes.
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