He would come back to us.

He would come back to us, in the hot summer nights,after days out in the open fields. His face backed by the burning sun, turned a weeping red,which he was too proud to notice. And even when we tried to remedy his burns,he flatly refused, and marched without a word back home. He held a tall stand, and when he walked, his pace was slow and gentle and slightly naive,as though he had been lost in thought again. we did not discuss the wars,nor anything about his past. we let him be the general that he was,wordless and un-afraid.