Why should I entomb my hatchet after so much toil in the honing? After all its blade excels alls measures for heft and keenness and no finer tool can be had to strike the ultimate blow - except perhaps the one you're holding.
So here we stand my friend ensnared by pride's inertia with everything to lose but one or another's demise within our imminent grasp.
Then without a sign or preamble, our eyes meet as if by chance and in that unsought instant, the shame of forgiveness saps our strength and sinew. Our weapons clang to the pavement.
Unless we're history's fools we know it seldom ends this way. How much must we sacrifice before the worst we have been can give up its sorry shade to the best our souls demand?