Winds blow like clarions in our ears,
Announcing defeats and victories.
Survivors take refuge in our heads,
And the dead receeds like fading cavalries.

We're reminded when the clarions blow,
That we must do something to steer.
So we pick our swords and shoot our guns,
For being forgotten is what we fear.

We turn the wars into history,
And read them year after year.
We paint pictures of heroism and bravery,
But we still fail at morphing our fear.

Painted heroism and tainted events,
Exists in ways of conversations.
And conversations over the years,
Turn into poetic delusions.

Delusions are just good enough
As we speak of temporaries.
So we must find other ways,
To exist in memories.