Is is the will which separates us. A will, for you, which moves as long grass in the wind, as the flame by a slamming door.
You see, you make of you will what is already made, what is simple, what is acceptable, what is accepted.
But mine, mine belongs to the old ways. And so it stands.
Mine is a will which holds as iron to that which I was raised in, that in which my traditions lay. There where my blood was born and in which it was nurtured and forged, not mine alone but as centuries of toil, sweat and tears.
Yet, you will of the moment would call mine unacceptable, my memories and traditions tainted inevitably as the centuries have passed.
You will stand there in your certainty, to dictate and lecture, as was told to you for what I should see, hear and speak.
But no. You are as the naïve child, yet you see yourself as enlightened. There is no debate to be had, for you are already certain of the truths you have been told, and know that I am wrong, for so have you been told.
But yours is no will of your own, not of any worth or strength. Yours is what you have been given and instructed. I will hold fast to what was and from where I come.
I will honour my blood and ways, no matter how useless you see them. For mine is the will of iron. And you are but an instrument of your own destruction.
A pity you cannot see that just yet. But you will.
Let that be the one thing you hear from me that you know will as truth.
One day, you will know.