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There is no battle I may call my own,
No war is set to rage that I may lead,
Rebellion's born no fruits that I've yet sown-
I cannot even claim to hold the seed.
The clash of dancing sabers chimes and hums,
Rebounding through my ears and o'er my tongue,
and pulsing, bittersweet, to inner drums-
The taste of glory coming, songs unsung.
Yet floral etiquette and courtesy
Are tied as ropes around this hot desire
Which flares and stirs beneath what eyes can see-
A blaze of light, a tiger born of fire-
Perhaps coiled not so tight but that they still
May burn away, and fire do what it will.