Swordsmen drift through these parts now and then
We watch them pass, wonder where they've been
Their swords discarded, but the calluses remain
Samurai of past, oh, you poor broken men
On this day saw I one such warrior of pain
By watching his gait, I knew he had slain
This sad, sad child (for he looked but sixteen)
Carried more than his share of bloodshed's strains
Small was his height, his hair's color obscene
But in my heart I felt what this child had seen
A scar marred his otherwise delicate face
Testament to a soul that will never be clean
All this in a glance, for fast was his pace
And the rest of the town gave him his space
The sword he carried warned them away
Its swing by his side the essence of grace
"A sword in this era? What a wicked display"
"Don't get too close, or there's hell to pay"
But there was no falter in this damned soul's sway
And I realized this sad wanderer would find no place to stay.