Veiled in glory, one looks back and grieves.
Each day of war is like a year of peace.
The nightmare, long since over, never leaves,
Endures because one won't give up its lease.
Remembering's an act of loyalty,
As though one could so keep the dead alive.
Nor does what's real seem like reality,
Since that is not what will at length survive.
Dreams of death and terror do, in time,
Adjust to one's routine as duties chime.
Yet nothing will one's lust for life revive.