A man stood there, alone in the room, looking out its windows.
It was his last day in his home,
   a home in a land not truly his,
   amongst a people not his own,
But he loved them.
And this was his home.
He looks out the window, wondering at his mistakes,
But not really wondering.
It was knowing, knowing he would act the same at a second chance.
It was his ambition, that insatiable demon,
   but he does not regret his actions, only their outcomes.
He looks out the window, remembering the love of his life,
   the love he left and was too ashamed to return to.
He looks out, and before him, lays his greatest accomplishments and his greatest failures.
He looks at the people he longed to help.
He  did try his best.
He had tried to bring peace and stability to a turbulent world.
But there was his ambition, that insatiable hunger.
The people turned their backs against him; he had to do something.
His allies too, turned against him; tricking him to this horrid day.
Yet already, the people regretted their actions, if only slightly.
This was his land, his glorious home, and home of the people he wanted to glorify;
   home to the people he had hurt.
But it was still his home... and he would return.
He would return, should it take 10 men, 100 men, 1000 men.
   If it did, then so be it.
Yes; this he promised himself, his land, his people, his enemies.
He vowed to return, to return when the violets would bloom.
Outside, voices called out to him. Harsh British tones, maybe Prussian, and Austrains too.
The man took one last look out the window, and departed,
Placing contempt in his eyes, departing with determination in his heart.