Many came and aspired to wield the blade
But few understood that to wield was to be,
Those who failed saw their efforts fade
With the sun as day yielded to night.
For the happy few that showed promise, a spark,
A single Dojo existed for those students to train and learn.
It was a simple place, quiet, but for many, a start,
A place to unlearn their worlds and learn new paths.
Students drilled in the Dojo's court,
The ground flat and dry, dusty and worn.
Wooden blades clacked together in sharp report,
As a figure wandered among them.
A single word in his native language; Again,
Was all he spoke, for the students knew their task.
Another word, another series of motions, their training to sustain,
But as the motions ended, a different word was spoken.
The day's drills done, the teacher dismissed the students,
For other tasks lay before them as the sun traveled across the sky.
Masamune let his students leave, noting each improvement,
And then left himself, his forge ahead.
He had no summons, no forewarning, of an arrival,
But the Swordsmith knew one was waiting all the same.
He had seen it, been shown it, in visions tidal,
In their ebb and flow within his mind.
He moved without haste, without fear,
For his sight had shown him no anger or hate
In the man or woman that drew near
With each careful, precise step he took.
Learning or perhaps understanding were,
The potential guides of this person that waited.
Without anger one could almost infer
That an open mind sought a simple path.
Masamune quietly entered his simple,
Forge where the newcomer surely waited.
He knelt and bowed once, the gesture almost a signal,
"I am Masamune. You are... expected."
[member="Ijaat Mereel"]
