#117

The war was won,
the enemy flag toppled.
Still upon their land
stood a white flag.

Yet the hero general
who led his country to victory
could not smile.

His eyes dark,
his face grim.

His broad shoulders,
once held magnificently,
stooped low.
His back arched.

His triumphant gait,
once emanating splendor and greatness,
was nowhere to be seen.

He wasn't injured.
Yet his walk was heavy,
as if age and burden
had made him limp.

He came back home
along with his men,
all much the same.

The jovial aura they once had
vanished when the war concluded.

Many celebrated their return.
Many more rejoiced in their victory.

But the men who truly went to war
could not feel the joy of it.

They had much to bury.
They had too much to report.

They had lost much—
burdens they wished they had carried,
and memories they could not
simply let go.

Their flag was raised high,
higher than the tallest house
that welcomed them.

The enemy was defeated.
Surely they had won the war.

But why did they feel
as though they were the ones
who had lost?

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