Rays of hope assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors.
The tall mystic enemy is at war with the child.
Sure of life and death, the child fights. His heart a turret, his positive thoughts the bullets.
The enemy is greedy of victory, the child fights to fight.
The battlefield, the clink of swords,
They speak to him.
Of life.
Of homeland.
The homeland where there is a symphony of old notes, a few portraits, an old sword in a secret cupboard.
His homeland where he saw mountains whittled out of ice,
Where peaks gathered last of sunlight, while storms blew plumes of snow from the summit.
His homeland where mother brews coffee and its whiff wakes him up.
More silent than his shadow, is his bravery which makes him pass through multitude of blows.
His valour is indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow.
He doesn't slink, but walks with the head high.
He is not afraid of decrepitude but of not fighting well enough.
His sword outstretched, he walks slowly,
Like someone who comes from so far that he doesn't expect to arrive.
