The Hero dons his helmet and steps forth
into the sun and dust
To do battle, as he must.
His lady has buckled and armed him
With a mace, a sword and dagger,
Equipped him also with a shield
His armour shining, gleaming.
He knows he is a Hero
And has to do a hero’s job
His lady and her family have made him so –
They depend on him to win.
Surrounded by the baying mob,
They expect he will be wounded
But expect him to return.
This knowledge makes the Hero proud
And gives him a reason
For living.
Because a hero is only a Hero
In a woman’s world.
In a man’s world a Hero is not recognized
Until he dies.
The Hero has to defeat his foe
Every day
Or else his line is lost.
He says to himself:
I will win.
Not immediately.
But definitely.
He is not without fear, and
The battle is long and tiring.
It swings back and forth;
Many times the Hero falls
and tastes the bitter dust –
he spits out blood and grit, but
knows his cause is just.
Some minor blows and advances
From his enemy –
But the Hero is determined
to finish off his foe.
He never gives up hope –
he sees his Lady watching
From the other side of the rope.
His shield and armour is badly dented, no longer gleaming
but smeared with blood and mud.
At last there is an opening,
His foe is tired as well –
Summoning all his strength
The hero strikes a mighty blow
Which, recoiling, sends him staggering back
And for a moment he cannot see what’s happened.
There is no opposition –
All is quiet, the dust still rising from the ground.
The hero peers through his visor
And sees his enemy flat on his back. He will not get up again.
His lady comes rushing to be by his side
And sees the strain on her Hero’s handsome, bloodied face.
“Am I your Hero?” he whispers in her ear;
“Yes” she quietly replies, with a shy smile –
And she comforts him in her arms.
C. Tim Taylor 2016