after losing a long, well fought fight
the rain or our pain pelts the pith in our joints
the heat of our hurt melts the marrow
in our bones

the valleys of our battlefields
are covered with wreckage of dreams deferred
our steeds are worn
our banners torn
into the wind our masts blown
and our tears rage
like the charge of rolling rapids
raging in an upset river

arising, raising our once torn
now mended banners higher
we tread trails of trial
trails of test
trails of travail
trails of toil

nonetheless, the hardened footsteps
of our tempered feet tend not
towards long retreat

towards our battlefield
towards our commitment
towards our vision
toward our dream

towards the source of our sore
once the gates are open

we shall return