We came not home with trumpets in the gale,
Nor banners bright, nor songs upon our breath;
But silent ranks, with faces gaunt and pale,
As those who’ve walked through shadow, fire, and death.

The laurel’s weight sits heavy on the brow,
Where once proud dreams of glory made us bold;
Yet what is honour to the broken now,
Who’ve bartered youth for mud and blood and cold?

We saw the stars o’er fields where none could sleep,
Heard mothers’ names in dying comrades’ sighs;
And learned the only truths the fallen keep:
That war writes fame in ash, and hope in lies.

Though victors we return to hearth and land,
We bear no sword—just silence in the hand.