My Gift

They say we all have a gift which makes us who we are,
Mine is obvious I'm a machine,
A machine created through blood and sweet,
Crafted over thousands of years of strife,
I've survived the death of countries and birth of civilization,
The art of the fist is my skill,
Passed for years until sport had diluted it to death,
Now flowing through my veins is the goal of centuries,
The goal of fallowing my fist to find out my life.