Warrior

The Warrior’s Oath

In the mist‑cloaked vale where old iron churns,
A young blade rides to meet the dawn’s cruel glare;
Through cistus‑wrenched streets, his purpose burns—
Not for glory’s crown, but for people’s quiet care.

His heart sings in a trembling defiant beat,
With armour cracked from noon‑lit steel’s soft hum;
He walks the line where the winter wolves meet,
And hears the wind spoke in Crystal‑white “humour.”

Past the greensward where the ancient stones lie,
He whispers to the ghosts of his forebears,
“Keep the flame of debt, and never let it die;
The field is a ballet of pain and of cheers.”

On the eve of duellists’ trembling breath;
He lifts his sword with a quiet, steady pride,
For he knows that right the straight edge has depth,
And that courage, not iron, will ever abide.

When the battle dissolves into silent embers,
The warrior bows with a touch of old grace,
The colour of his honour never remembers—
It stays in the heart, and the soul keeps the pace.