The old guardian

The sword cuts straight
But the old man is not strong
His soul is full of light
But his muscles are not taunt and young

His foe is strong and mighty
Eyes bright and blue
Hair the colour of the sunlight across the sandy deserts
His heart ruthless and cruel

The old man draws himself up to stand straight against the arid azure skies
His blade flying out it's scabbard like the cry of a diving bird of prey
All the power and grace of his youth back for just a moment
He is the wandering guardian of these parched lands
His cloak the color of the dusts, the sea, and the sweet green of the growing grasses

And though he must die this day under the harsh gaze of the burning sun
His blood will not have been spilled out over the sands in vain
He is but one of the many
The line going back into the untold ages
Heroes and heroines who have struggled with great heart for us all

The cruel blade strikes him down
Cutting him from neck to armpit
Biting through bone as the cruel face of youth snarls silently
Only the whistling of the blade sounding across the hot winds that blow across the dunes

From one to another the legacy is carried
A cloak the colour of dust, sea and growing leaves
A simple blade that will come into the hands of the next champion of life and right
Even though that this day one falls
Across the long miles and years another is called to rise
To stand for life and right