My little fighters.
You take out your swords every day. Sometimes it feels so heavy you can barely lift it. Sometimes it’s hard to even get out there: It’s easier to just stay under the blanket and let the storm rage. Still: You do get out there time and again. You carefully spend from your precious reserves of energy to put on the armor, and grab the sword. You peer out at the world cautiously, even if the world can be dangerous and treacherous at times. More: You dare to let me fight along with you. You dare to trust me, even if you’ve been stabbed in the back before.
My strong fighters. I see you jump over stones, even if they are high. You wade through rivers, no matter if you sometimes must try different paths to not be taken away with the current. You have battle scars, but you make them your weapon of choice. Proficient warriors are not afraid of scars, but show them to the world with pride. No one can ever take away the moments you did get to the other side of the river, or when you put on your armor after all. No one can erase these moment of victory no matter what they say. They did occur and history is history.
My wise fighters. I have never heard more inspiring battle cries. I have never heard more important voices.