Blood on the Training Ground

What a shame— A prisoner of hunger, A master of swords, Yet bound by chains. Has he wasted his years, After shedding blood— On the training ground, Just to end up a loser, Tearing apart, slowly? If "yes" is what you say, Then who should bear the blame? The one who scrambled for bread, So the boy could become a master? Or those who made him Walk through fire and get burned? Or the men who fastened chains to his hands? If others say "no," When will he ever be free again? When will his sword win wars, Not just earn him the name “master”? When will he gain riches, And taste life’s better things? Will it be when his hair turns grey— Or when he dies with his sword on his chest? All these questions trouble the young master, But deep in his heart, he knows this— He cannot return to dust like this. So he keeps trying to break the chains, The chains that hold him captive, Hoping his sword will one day save him. © Happiness Enobong Inyang