Quenched in screaming water the blade, afire.
From which there is nowhere to run, no hole.
Behold, the blade tempered in past of ire,
the hilt of which akin to banner’s pole,
in the air billowing the icon hate.
Cruelest men bowing an ignorant head.
Nevertheless the blade seals their true fate,
leaving them yelping, sundered by Death’s dread.
The blade swings back against the hand that kept.
In biting pain and vast perturbation,
the sword bathed in bloody enmity leapt.
Both edges keen for annihilation.
In the temple the sword waits dependent,
to be summoned by want of resentment.