My Sword Poem by Bidyarnab Das

Ink flows from pen, a silent sword,
Crafting tales with each swift chord.
Words wielded with precision's grace,
Inscribed upon life's endless space.

Through parchment vast, they etch their mark,
A symphony in the endless dark.
From poet's verse to scholar's thought,
In every line, a battle fought.

Yet a sword, with steel so keen,
Cuts through the silence, sharp and clean.
With every stroke, a story told,
In the clash of steel, legends unfold.

Each stroke, a testament to might,
In the dance of battle, day or night.
A sword, a symbol of power's call,
Standing tall, never to fall.

So whether pen or sword you choose,
In each, a force that cannot lose.
For in their grip, we find our voice,
To shape our destiny, our choice.