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.