Man’s hand returns to his sword
A greater balance
Sees destiny re-stored.
For to a greater cause
Be he one bound and sworn,
He wears old Solomon’s crest
And speaks a mystery tongue.
For he the ranger of this land,
This abode of rock and sand.
He the rover in the song,
That revels in the willow mists of time.
He strikes each dawn anew;
He reaps, he sows
Follows the circular seasons
In their fullest expression.
Is as rich as the soil he turns
And toils with his back to the sun.
He the settler, the builder of homes,
His ritualised nature
Allows the weaving of traditions.
He the forefather of the saint,
Blessed with the fruits of his torn fingers
And blood let.
He the humble servant
Of that which will never know,
He who never crumbles
Before the altar,
Or swallows the poison
Of false prophets.
He the pride of the struggle faced
On this battleground great heroes are born
And carrion well fed.
He who lay’s the first stone
Of peace and truth
And heals our wounds
With his laughter and song.
For better he be a rambler,
One lost to the road and hills,
Wrapped up in rough blankets,
With rose thorns in his wooden feet.
He feels the hand of old
Return him to the fold,
On the cusp of divine inspiration
He tip-toes upon
A loving breeze.
In the wild lands of his tribe
He may sit beneath the heavens each night
And carve animals from hawthorn
And depict with senses immutable
The ruler of the stars,
Seeking his soul in the
And wear his skin without solace.