I saw a train where dreams devoured souls,
I heard the echo of a dying wish,
And the hollow cry of three young children.
I smelled the rust and blood on a shattered blade,
I tasted the smoke of a fading fire—where his strength once burned.
I touched the hand of one who swore to protect,
Only to find his spirit had been left behind.
I did not see him triumph,
I did not hear him or the children cry «We won!»
I did not smell the scent of spring,
Nor taste the victory at the feast.
I never reached the future.
Win or lose—it is all the same.
Nothing matters when the hero dies.
The only thing left is for your heart to stay ablaze,
While his has already grown cold.
It isn’t losing the battle that stings the most,
It’s the empty space where he used to stand.
