At the end of every twisted road,
there's a subtle sense of victory;
Relief in signs of breathless sighs,
restoring our pride and dignity.

Calamitous routes in honored claim,
now reveal a robust history;
For those who've conquered what remains,
from their uncommon curiosity.

In reaching back among the crowd,
we hear the chanting sounds' velocity;
That will grant a waging war of words,
far beyond its sheer ferocity.

While the broken pieces of the day,
are cleverly tossed and scattered;
For winning never seemed to be,
the thing that truly mattered.