Ballad of the Sword

You lie in purple and in gold,
A deadly spirit of the war untold.
Within the stone hall, cold and grand,
You do not see the sky’s blue span.

Your flanks are plates of gleaming steel,
Polished to edges sharp and real.
As if the gods themselves did forge,
Their fingers shaped each line, each gorge.

Across your straight and solid frame,
The runes are twined like threads of flame.
You thirst for battle, crave the strife,
To spill the blood, to take the life.

It matters not whose fate you weave,
Whose hand shall wield you, make you heave.
It matters not whose head shall fall,
Beneath your edge, beneath it all.

You are the spirit of the fight,
The child of clashing, roaring might.
You cleave the flesh and drink the soul,
No fear of loss can make you whole.

All else is human, frail and small:
The hate, the fear, the rise and fall.
You feel no dread, you gift the void,
Turning all life to dust and spoiled.

You’re a rune-carved blade, a prophet-slayer,
Born from fire, metal, endless taker.
A soul-reaper, a blood-drinker true,
Yet in this role, you hold no guilt, no hue.

The King of Swords, the mortal’s guide,
By smith’s own hand you were supplied.
In dawn’s first rays you were made strong,
The executioner of start and long.