I was trained many years ago to work steel, and long ago I made swords, good swords as my teacher taught me too. There is something of the maker in each sword he makes, a part of his soul if he is any good at all. In martial societies, the warrior puts his soul into his sword by how he lives,fights, and dies, but it is never alone, for it shares the sword with the maker.
A Warrior’s Sword Soul
Falling hammer set sparks a leaping
to the tone of steel’s ring painful clear.
Slowly I shape its elongated form so severe,
setting the edge till now but sleeping.
Shaping the long edge beyond just sharp,
until light is lost along that finite line.
Air splits to escape that touch so fine,
a chill whisper that sounds like the Devil’s harp.
Set the wooden grip, wrapped with shark’s skin,
to balance the length of darkened steel there.
with a sigh I slide the grip down the metal with care,
locking the form with a single hidden pin.
I move it through the air in the ancient forms,
listening to its song of sundered air so soft.
I feel the shape of the blade in the air aloft,
flutter like a swift’s wing as it performs.
What I have created now seems alive,
as it should, taking its first breath in my hands.
I caress the grip’s delicate pair of silver bands,
gifts to the silent gods that my steel soul may thrive.