When distant trumpets blow, to sound retreat,
And all directions, pointed back to base,
Despair waits, as the foe of greater threat
That only victory, would dare erase;
The unhealed wounds and scars, that all bewailed,
Add bitterness to misery and grief,
Yet may behoove to change, the scheme that failed,
To bode much better times, suffer, but brief;
The mound of dead, piled up under the grass,
Where limping comrades plant the tattered flag,
Stands tribute, cast in bones instead of brass.
But action in which braves, should at first log
.....Is finding strength to fight those doubts again,
.....So oft arrayed for battle in the brain.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem