The Quiet Retreat Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The gun is dry, the powder gone.
My spirit aches, the fight feels wrong.
Should I pretend, and make a show?
Or heed the whisper, soft and low?

My body calls, it knows the way.
To rest and mend, for a brighter day.
No general's word, however grand,
Can stop this feeling, close at hand.

I turn my back on empty fight,
And seek the solace of the night.
To find the strength, to make anew,
And rise again, when I am true.