This is one of my favourite poems by Margaret Atwood, in which she contemplates war and our reactions to victory and defeat. Taken from her collection of poetry, The Door.
Nobody Cares Who Wins Nobody cares who wins wars. They care at the moment: they like the parades, the cheering; but after that, winning diminishes. The silver cup on the mantle engraved with some year or other; a hoard of buttons, cut from corpses as souvenirs; a shameful thing you did in white, hot anger shoved back out of sight. Bad dreams, a bit of loot. There's not much to say about it. That was a fine time, you think. I've never felt more alive. Nonetheless, victory puzzles you. Some days you forget where you've put it, though younger men make speeches about it as if they had been there too. Of course it's better to win than not. Who wouldn't prefer it? Losing, though. That's different. Defeat grows like a mutant vegetable, swelling with the unsaid. It's always with you, spreading underground, feeding on what's gone missing: your son, your sister, your father's house, the life you should have had. It's never in the past, defeat. It soaks into the present, it stains even the morning sun the colour of burnt earth. At last it breaks the surface. It bursts. It bursts into song. Long songs, you understand. They go on and on.