in victory is history
Hair and fingernails and the way home ache, almost as much as surrounding Cypress cleared by cudgels, from a pounding sky over water-stock reeking of iron and urine, matted in fear and collateral in every story, told by survivors around hasty campfires, unaware they’re victors by attrition to the work of Viking-ing, lying about it from afar or in a rice patty reeking of iron and urine, surviving to read the dead on marble slabs, for sure as the void, we will not be on theirs.
