The Blacksmith
In a moment of weakness I handed you my sword.
To wield it against me would surely mean my death.
The blade has been honed and sharpened for years,
The grindstone my anger, the polish my tears.
What a fool to give you this weapon I was.
With blade strong as pride,
Edge sharp as tongue,
My armor is no match for your thrust.
On my knees I begged for your mercy.
Return to your sheath, my precious sword.
For it is your blade I fear to look upon.
From the furnace I drew you,
Folded you,
Pounded you,
The hand of another shall hold you no more.
Stango