Not born of royalty nor to any wealth.
Still serving on the day of your death.
Short sword, not a knife;
to honorably end your life.
Your Lord ordered,
it was his decision.
You cut your belly,
with mindless precision.
Where will you go?
I do not know.
As the blade enters,
forward you go.
You see your second,
on the left.
With the second cut;
you had nothing left.
As his blade comes around,
your severed head hits the ground.
No life story to tell;
are you relieved to leave this hell?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
what a refreshing, unromaticised take on harakiri. Nice work, sansai :)