No one ever wins a war.

The dust settles, the weapons drop to the muddied dirt; each warrior screams “why is my soul hurt?”

Memories taunt as their armour rusts, remembering how their mothers told them: be kind, child.

 

Cries echoes throughout the battlefield, mourning for both ally and foe—their hearts bursting.

Whispers of why oh why, they all forgot their proud battle cry; which now is: I’m sorry, it was a lie.

 

Stories are to be told of the bravery; the soldiers remember the causality— there are no heroes.

 

A hero of the victory lying in its bed, trembling from visions; a hero fleeing the scene.

The bed too soft, the food to savoury… what has become of the bittersweet victory?

 

Humble they return, those defeated their voices never heard—friend or foe we will never know.

The price paid, in blood; tears; sweat; wine, no one will ever speak of it as a crime.

 

Stories are to be told of the flag that rose! The family only have a portrait left; of the child now gone.

 

War has victors that write the history of heroic deeds—though no one ever wins a war.

 

No one ever wins a war.