Captivated by your every movement,

Entranced by your expert dance.

Were you born with the graceful stance, boy

For you're a master of your art

Exerting powerwith every stride,

with every maneouvre of your shoulders,

every twist, every lunge and every cut,

every glimmer of your sword -

Can I even credit you with what I write?

I wonder how your heart beats

when your breath quickens so.

Do you feel your pulse in the cold steel?

Do your eyes reflect the blade, boy -

does its essence course through your blood

when your cheeks colour and heat?

Your hands hold the weight of life and death:

the weapon, your religion; the dance, your prayer.

Where does such glory come from?

The silver metal from edge to tip,

Your own soul, from heart to mind.

Yet what are you but one of us,

made divine by the life of my words.