Imagine seeing a silvery blade dancing to the music of death. Marred by the poetry of blood A trumpet to the cries of war But it also reflects the wielder. When looking at it, you can see yourself. But in my eyes, I can see the steel's heart. As it's in your hand, preparing to protect, it's polished until it shines like luna wildfire. In the end, I believe the true beauty of a katana comes not from the hilt or engravings, but from the steel. How many songs has it sang in our battles, can you imagine...? A katana's beauty comes from the polished steel as it's shines so brightly with victorious prayers.
This poem is dedicated to several katana that I saw in a museum near me. (I'm a nerd for these things and I'm not shamed)