Warriors…

Where do all old warriors go, when they can no longer mount their steeds?,
Do they sit in front of late night fires, and dream of long past deeds?
Are the dreams all filled with riding the wind, and battle for the good,
Or are their Hearts like heavy metal, their eyes beneath deep hoods.

The loss of the hunt, the thrill of the fight, denied at last to them,
They sit and mourn with new pains born, through eyes that seem to dim.
Their armor no longer girds them, to all the World they bare,
While once a subject whispered of, now people only stare.

Though a cane replaces his sword these days, he still remembers when,
The sound of his voice, gave others a choice, to stop and think again.
The sparkle of his armor, the swiftness of his deeds,
Brought happiness to the good ones, and bad men to their knees.

So though they walk much softer now, and hardly are they seen,
If you chance to catch the eye of one, within you'll see a gleam.
The strenght of younger warriors now, replace them on mounted steeds,
So they can live a quieter life, and partake of rest they need.

Yet still they walk with heads held high, a gleam within their eye,
Reflections in a silver cane, of clouds high in the sky...

Ron Walker March, 2003