On War, Defeat, and Killing Oneself

On terms undeclared, we marched to the battlefield
Only to find ourselves greeted by bullets from all directions.
Our fingers clicked the trigger – in vain – until our numbers were miserably reduced.
The few among us hundreds that remained were sent back as messengers decorated with blood, carrying the message of defeat.
The general – the only man left in the camp, a grey man with grey locks in his hair – welcomed the messengers, closed his diary – now completed – and shot himself.

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