_If victory had a taste,_

It would be bold, a flavor not misplaced.

A sip of champagne, crisp and sweet,

A hint of salt from sweat’s defeat.

It lingers like honey, slow and warm,

Born of battles weathered through storm.

A bite of citrus, sharp and bright,

Awakening senses in the pale moonlight.

It’s the crack of bread at a feast of kings,

The nectar that triumph endlessly brings.

But woven within, a bittersweet note,

The echo of trials that tighten the throat.

Victory tastes of dreams fulfilled,

Of mountains climbed, and silence stilled.

A savory feast, a sweet delight—

If victory had a taste, it would taste like night.