on we march.
homwards. and we follow the scums, the dirt, the animal guts thrown upon our heads.
but we follow the crumbs of light left over, from stars that passed by these silent woods some few centuries ago.
hope is the ugliest of emotions, hope has been a trader.
we kiss our wives, and children because even though no one heard us calling, even though they disparately tried to shut their ears.
our please loud and clear. this is war, perhaps not in the conventional way, but this is our own personal war, as we march homewards.
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