A hilt of iron holds a jagged shard,
Reflecting every sin the wielder knows;
The edges are as cruel and as hard,
As winter wind across the mountain snows.
It does not cut the flesh or spill the red,
But slices through the spirit’s hidden veil;
To leave the secrets of the quiet dead,
Upon a path that’s ghostly thin and pale.
The warrior swings the mirror-brightened steel,
Against a foe of shadow and of mist;
Until the very foundations start to reel,
From every strike that destiny has kissed.
The battle ends within a fractured light,
Where truth is sharper than the deepest night.
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