What broken feels like

The red sky is not a glorious sunset, but war.

The screams are not cheers, but cries of children and mothers.

The dying we left behind.

Cesear and his warriors wallow in celebration,

 Sated with cackling glory, fat with self,  sucking in the swill of our surrender

From a pot we prepared for them.

They pound their chests with weapons we forged and  gladly gave.

I want to hear your voice,

Need its soft reassurance,

Your breath in my ear,

Calling down the light.

Darkness is not victory;

Sneering crowds not heroes.

Tyrants, blinded with pleasure, fail.

We will rise, learn again to stand

From knees,

Crawling to walking,

Walking to running.

When we gather again

We will rise.

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