The Dance of Wild Order
Oars crash the stream, their cries alight,
They move in rhythm edged with might.
No law commands, no logic reigns—
The war dance pulses through their veins.
And yet within that savage spin,
A sacred spiral lives within.
The cypress waits with shadows tall,
Still rooted in the warrior’s call.
These tombs recall the one who stood
And danced the warpath into good.
In death’s embrace, the form remains—
The breath that haunts ancestral veins.
