We walked where the maps gave up,
where the wind had no manners
and the dust clung to your boots
like it meant to follow you home.
No brass bands, no speeches —
just the quiet nod of lads
who knew the weight of distance
and the price of being needed.
The guns were our heartbeat,
steady as old friends,
loud enough to remind the world
we were still there,
still holding the line
even when the line was thin.
Everywhere they sent us,
we left something behind:
a bootprint in the mud,
a joke whispered in the rain,
a promise kept in the dark.
And though the world forgets
the ones who fire from the shadows,
the guns remember.
They always do.