What? You expected gratitude?
That you forged me of steel in the hottest flames? More than two-hundred folds to ensure my density? Sharpened my edge so that, in a master’s hand, I could slice through bamboo in a single stroke?
Then you ignored the wisdom of the old master:
“Weapons are unhappy tools…”
legends scripted in blood
on faded parchment
how many young men die
for old men’s dreams?
Why should I be grateful?
I am a tool whose intended use is slaughter. My sharp edge can as easily dismember a man from shoulder to hip as a bamboo trunk. And often did, in the hands of angry young men–privledged with rank and training–when mere peasants “dishonored” them. Such summary execution was a samurai’s right, after all.
And how many truly noble samurai did I cut down in duals among masters, or masters’ pupils? How many perished because of me in the civil wars following the Heian period?
Do you truly believe I will thank you?
another transport departs
with wide-eyed young men
Is lasting peace an exercise