About a year has passed. I've returned to the place of the battle, br to its birds that have learned their unfolding of wings br from a subtle br lift of a surprised eyebrow, or perhaps from a razor blade br - wings, now the shade of early twilight, now of state br bad blood. br br Now the place is abuzz with trading br in your ankles's remnants, bronzes br of sunburnt breastplates, dying laughter, bruises, br rumors of fresh reserves, memories of high treason, br laundered banners with imprints of the many br who since have risen. br br All's overgrown with people. A ruin's a rather stubborn br architectural style. And the hearts's distinction br from a pitch-black cavern br isn't that great; not great enough to fear br that we may collide again like blind eggs somewhere. br br At sunrise, when nobody stares at one's face, I often, br set out on foot to a monument cast in molten br lengthy bad dreams. And it says on the plinth "commander br in chief." But it reads "in grief," or "in brief," br or "in going under.