The old world and its endless sand
reaching forever like a broken star.
That is what we must hold–
against the night in its divisions
marching on toward the beaches
of homeward dreams.

And to think, how a spitfire must look
against those breaking waves, and
what songs the propellers
may of sung to that silence
when the whirring stopped
and one song fell to three.

It is the song of lost fellows
that now roams that lonely sky.
It plays and plays, brooding
from the voiceless eyes
of unmatched shoes.

Yet still rings that call of hope:
we must go on,
white flag surrendered
only when there are none
left to see it buried.

Hope is a civilian horizon:
the promise of boredom, of love,
and the chance to embrace, as strangers,
the mutual uncertainty of this new world,
and maybe, more simply, find happiness
over dinner and a movie.

These are new eyes and new songs,
and though that ocean still swells
with the names of those voices lost,
they are reclaimed in victory,
despite its cost.

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