When is the time?
I found my way around the shop,
Stepping carefully past each loaded gun display case.
The various swords sat in their respective places, soldiers ready for battle.
I hear him whisper in memory, The Prayer to the Enemy.
His chants were memorized like so many, in the Great War.
“When is the time father?”
My father stood at the register,
Typing away at the keyboard as he opened the store.
His hands flew across the keyboard with well-trained grace and speed.
He hadn’t used a sword in battle since the Great War.
His unused armor hangs within its closet,
It gathers dust like the empty shells of the tanks which littered the battlefield.
“When is the time father?”
I watched him each day,
Each night,
Crafting each blade with tempered skill and respect for his work.
Hard at work in the forge.
Dedication means nothing to a man who slaves over a hammer and anvil for a cause.
War tempered his courage and strength over death.
“Your actions not only affect the soul which is yours, but the souls that you destroy in war”
Strong arms pounded metal into shape.
Unquenchable, roiling flames beside him as he worked in solitude.
Disregarding in silence, the roaring forge.
He fights the metal with each swing, knowing its shape past each blow.
“Out of last resort I draw this blade, alone is its wielder, in a time of darkness, never again will you breathe before me, speak before my ears, and never will this blade flash before you again.”
Not once have I heard a sigh escape his lips,
Sparkling stars shined in his eyes as his graceful arms moved swiftly.
“Why not fight?” I ask so frequently,
Yet with each time comes: “it is not the time young one.”
“May your death bring life, twice that of yours, in a time of peace and light, so that my blade need not shine like the torch in our time of darkness.”
Stepping carefully past each loaded gun display case.
The various swords sat in their respective places, soldiers ready for battle.
I hear him whisper in memory, The Prayer to the Enemy.
His chants were memorized like so many, in the Great War.
“When is the time father?”
My father stood at the register,
Typing away at the keyboard as he opened the store.
His hands flew across the keyboard with well-trained grace and speed.
He hadn’t used a sword in battle since the Great War.
His unused armor hangs within its closet,
It gathers dust like the empty shells of the tanks which littered the battlefield.
“When is the time father?”
I watched him each day,
Each night,
Crafting each blade with tempered skill and respect for his work.
Hard at work in the forge.
Dedication means nothing to a man who slaves over a hammer and anvil for a cause.
War tempered his courage and strength over death.
“Your actions not only affect the soul which is yours, but the souls that you destroy in war”
Strong arms pounded metal into shape.
Unquenchable, roiling flames beside him as he worked in solitude.
Disregarding in silence, the roaring forge.
He fights the metal with each swing, knowing its shape past each blow.
“Out of last resort I draw this blade, alone is its wielder, in a time of darkness, never again will you breathe before me, speak before my ears, and never will this blade flash before you again.”
Not once have I heard a sigh escape his lips,
Sparkling stars shined in his eyes as his graceful arms moved swiftly.
“Why not fight?” I ask so frequently,
Yet with each time comes: “it is not the time young one.”
“May your death bring life, twice that of yours, in a time of peace and light, so that my blade need not shine like the torch in our time of darkness.”