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 power with 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.