So lithe you look, young one, with
sleepy joy in your eyes,

as you sweep the swords from their fasting place
like the world belongs to you alone.

Teach a man to dance, the old ones say,
before you give him a sword.

Such dancing for you seems a breeze, but
what would they say of the taking?

I know this one inside me
What fun we had, he and I!

Yet there will come a time when the music stops,
and we will find the sword tips have drawn blood

from our fingers

Our head will be bowed and our feet will drag in the dirt,
a dance of a different kind, I suppose.

I bless you with all my heart, my son, but
remember the two swords

that remain behind, so firmly rooted in the earth.
For in the end, you will answer only to them.