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 grit in the marrow in our bones

the valleys of our battlefields
lay covered with wreckage
our steeds are worn
our banners torn
into the wind our masts flown
and our tears rage
like the charge of rolling rapids
raging in upset rivers

nonetheless, the hardened footsteps
of our tempered feet tend not
towards long retreat
towards our commitment
towards our vision
towards the source of our sore
once the gates are open
we shall return