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Korak fast was becoming but a memory. That he was dead

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Turns circling on her wound, and still pursues

Korak fast was becoming but a memory. That he was dead

The weapon fleeing as she whirls around.

Korak fast was becoming but a memory. That he was dead

Thus, in his rage destroyed, his shapeless face

Korak fast was becoming but a memory. That he was dead

Stood foul with crimson flow. The victors' shout

Glad to the sky arose; no greater joy

A little blood could give them had they seen

That Caesar's self was wounded. Down he pressed

Deep in his soul the anguish, and, with mien,

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