In my blade, I am reflected

In the water of my eyes
is the gleam of my blade.

As my mind is forged,
as my wit is whetted,
as my wisdom is honed,

so tended
is its crying edge.

As my anger sleeps,
As my hatred is diminished,
for rare ought be their need,

In leather, wood, it hides
for rare ought be its need.

When purpose wills
a wound be dealt
too deep and swift for mortal hands,

when awakened is anger
when hatred called upon
for strength

then from the scabbard
of temperament is dawn
the blade,

unified in purpose
singular in reason
cohesive metal
flesh, and soul

the necessary harm
to bring.

Penned by my hand on the 25th of Valnuary, in the year 586 AF.