All soldiers are refugees, of a kind

There is no peace-time 

On the roads they travel

They left that land so long ago

Whether on the winning, or the losing side

They know they have not saved

That town called home for themselves

Mutated killers, they belong elsewhere

On muddy battlefields that have gone to seed

In a place where a rifle is more ready

Than an open hand, and the hands that hold them

Are paid by the hour

They return, never to the land

They paid their honour for but one

New battlefield, where survival rests

On silence and forgetting:

That once there was hope

There was home