Lyrics
He dwells in the den where the great wings fold,
A boy of eleven, both loyal and bold.
With daggers of blue and a warm living green,
And a white dragon bow with a pale ancient sheen.
The blue water-dagger slips down from his hold,
The green nature-light paints his wrists, bright and bold.
The pale bowstring bites as it snaps to his chest,
A thumb's width of pull puts his arms to the test.
The elders watch over the trials he will face,
To give him the strength of their ancient race.
He is the dragons' son, wild and free,
Raised in the mountains where few men can see.
He is the dragons' son, learning to fight,
Growing his wings in the shadows and light.
He hangs from a branch till he falls in the wood,
With bark in his hair, laughing right where he stood.
He hauls a great stone till it stops with a thud,
And slips from the rocks in the snow-freezing flood.
A claw taps his heel by the threshold of stone,
He cuts through the bark till the motion is known.
He shoots the white bow at the mountain's far slope,
His bruised little shoulder now anchored in hope.
The moon rises high o'er the den's rocky floor,
The bone bow leans pale by the cavern's dark door.
The dragon who drove him to that corner space,
Now shields with a wing in this warm resting place.
The elders watch over the trials he will face,
To give him the strength of their ancient race.
He is the dragons' son, wild and free,
Raised in the mountains where few men can see.
He is the dragons' son, learning to fight,
Growing his wings in the shadows and light.
His aching arms tell him the weakness is gone...
Sleep well for the morrow, young dragons' son.