A katana, spills the blood of
many. Enemies or innocents, it cuts
just the same.
Crimson filled its mind, from birth
to rust.
A katana exists to be used.
To kill or to maim, to scare or to show,
makes little difference to the sword.
In different hands,
it changes shape.
To a blacksmith, each sword
is his child.
To an amateur, it is a tool.
To a veteran, an old friend.
The polish on this metal is
gone, shined only in myth and tale.
Now all that remains are the stains of men.
The chips of battle. The cracks of age.
But still the blade remains, immortal to humanity.
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