Who teaches us warriors
when holding our knives
to move from the blade
to the handle of life?
Too long did I cling
to the sword of my will
its blade much more sharp
than a porcupine's quill
With fingers quite bloody
and battle scarred frame
I tossed in the gauntlet
surrendered in shame
Then out of the ashes
my feeble hand touched
a smooth birch wood handle
which I quickly clutched
I brushed off the weapon
and found in surprise
it was the same sword
that I once so despised
Who teaches us warriors
when holding our knives
to move from the blade
to the handle of life?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem is also so intriguing, I'd like to know what triggered it?