Over the horizon I can hear the battle-cry,
See the tiny red flag you wave at our enemies.
Your chariot, splattered with the blood and soil,
Brings me back your sweat, and an end to my wait.
Our home’s been desolate, dusty, your guitar.
My incomplete letters fills my desk,
Letters, I wouldn’t send you to bring you home.
It’s our world, I know your fighting for,
I must be selfless, but how can I be?
Your shirt, I wear to bed, at night,
Your scent lulls me asleep, and dreams.
The ghostly us, happy and together is one.
The cries sound nearer, the flag grows bigger.
I wish it wasn’t a dream, and it was really you,
Coming home, a victor.