Guardians begat guardians, and teachers teachers; this tendency is written in us deeper than the coiled helixes that knew, before we were born, the day we would die.
We stand where the shadows are deepest, our eyes unblinking and set towards the warm lights of a city we feel inside of our bones. We smell last week's festival on the air, the rotten vegetables and raggedy piles of guttersnipe huddling in the alleyways; we are the ones older than time, the ones with the most precious souls clasped to our sandstone breasts.
When the world dyes indigo, we prepare for the vigil, fires and the black eyes of our brothers at our backs; and little Naruto before us, holding a bright candle in front of a bottomless and deathly world, knowing that we are watching him with pride and always, solid as stone, only a glance towards the mountain of his destiny. We're waiting for him, when he leaves this village and when he saves it.
We are the Hokages of yesteryear, and we know what we have died to give life to.
AN: The button is yours, ere to select
And your words will make me feel a bit less henpecked... A poem for you, dear readers. Please, dear god. Review.