Amidst the cheerful throngs of men,
Beneath the joyful songs of content,
An inner swelling contracts violently
On this celebrated day of man.

Beyond the bugles’ triumph,
Below the wrought-iron gate,
Enter in the victors of battle,
Survivors of sword, arrow, and wrath.

Instantaneous to the king’s barks,
The heroes are wreathed at once
While horses’ hooves continue to prance
And heavy clanking noises resonate.

Upon arriving at altar destination,
The triumphants dismount shakily
And just the same fall to their knees
Before garnishly adorned throne.

“Mark ye, noble knights,
This day in which you walk
Bruised and scarred and bleeding yet,
Ye valiant warriors of life.”

An inner itch seemed to surface
As the soldiers grit their teeth
And heads familiar of humility
Dare not raise their sights.

“This day, all tears will fall
And all whines will sound.
Excruciating pain will dwell within
As limbs give way too easy.”

Oh how the softest of men
Is aroused in sentimental remark,
And yet the soldiers remain
Visibly composed to every watching eye.

“But after today, pain will evaporate
Into the cool moist air.
Gags will hush as wounds will close
Throughout the days ahead.”
An exuberance of emotions began to flow
As both kneeler and observer
Subdued to the overwhelming revelation
In which pretense bears no seed.

“Rise now, legionnaires.
Dispatch on thy steeds
Towards the rising sun
And turn not back here.”

And so the soldiers rode
On steady path without destination
With a constant echo resounding,
“But forget not ye scars.”