They gone write about my squad 
in the history books.
They will tell our kids 
that their parents were legends.
They will remember us, 
not by the battles we won,
but by the way we chose our weapons,
by the lives we touched.
They’ll say we looked like God — 
relentless. Like drops of light
in the darkness.
They’ll call us knights.
They’ll call us a pride, a collective.

They won’t say we ran away to the hills
with our faith between our legs
and our sacred caps on our heads
as we pouted at the secular and watched from above,
as if we were chosen by merit.

No.
The echoes of time 
will whisper our names for the rest of the age
because instead of trying to escape this world,
we brought down Heaven.

Cover Photo by Holly Mindrup on Unsplash