He grasps the arrow in his hand,
a stick and feather, nothing grand,
to shoot it out — where will it land?
Fist reddens, renews its grip,
Nervous bite, a blood red lip.
Closes his eyes to see the light,
No rest, he fights through the night.
Does the warrior have a choice?
Can a rooster stay silent, can it quiet its voice?
Should he drop the arrow,
what may come tomorrow?
No mark, no dent, not a sound,
Nothing left to be found.
Like a messenger on his horse,
carefully he changes course.
Using his force, his strength, his might,
he sends the arrow off in flight.
Trust instinct, let faith flower,
Inside his soul, lies his power
to overcome his darkest hour.