Who made you, dagger,
Dozens of decades ago?
Whose hands worked that
Silver pattern on your edge?
Do you remember your master,
Dagger,
Who is long-dead and denied by descendents,
Destroyed by the darkness of deeds?
What is the taste like,
Dagger,
Of the rival's warm blood?
Do you dream
Of the freedom,
Of breaking the glass of your jail,
Where you've dwelt for decades?
Do you dare
Bid defiance to your doom?
Streams of scarlet blood
Once ran down your blade,
No it's covered with dust.
Dangerous, handsome, living dagger,
My peaceful flute
Sings
To your glorified past.