When first the eastern columns crossed the plain,
We laughed and marked their borders thin and red;
“The front will hold,” our weary captains said,
As if old walls could answer force again.
But roads grew still, and every town’s domain
Turned gray behind the lines where traders fled;
The maps refreshed; each hour another spread,
And all our careful plans dissolved in vain.
Then came the strange and ordinary part:
No final stand, no trumpet, cry, or flame—
Just fewer names appearing in the chat;
A silent loss that settled in the heart.
By dawn the world remained, yet not the same,
And all who stayed rebuilt as after that.