Our blood still flows free on the continent.
We pass on the muscle of an eye,
cheekbones smooth as morning,
slender legs that beg for the stirrup.
We never forget but are forgotten.

In the hills our banner rises.
Memorial to failure, victory
of mountains too steep to scale.
We are cousins to the winter
emblazoned over crossed fists

on a field of white, skull of a people.
On the cornerstone of this tribute
the date of a red flower forever
blossomed in empty, foreign sky.
We are just the call of war away.