“So when will the weather change, my dear?” She asks - “When the very last bullet is shot? When the bodies are buried, When chariots and ferries Cut the next scene in the plot?” He answers: “Not even when guns will roar and all a man's cavalry charge, Nor when women and children cry, Or when men, who long for their families and home Lay down their lives with pride. War is bloodshed refined - And a ceaseless fight to stand. But who lies broken? And who takes the throne, While they battle for grain and land? Which man deserves the victor’s crown? Which man has earned the pride? The one who tramples the fallen survivors - Or the one who fell with stride?” It’s left to your perception, For truth bends in time’s wide view. Colonies rose on oceans red, And still - survivors are me and you. So here we stand unbroken, For the “losers” who fought with stride - The ancestral line of those who knew Their glory might live or die. Yet they fought on fields unending, Dreaming of a day to see: That we - The prime, the polish— Are the world they fought to free. -quiet_pages