“The blade itself incites to deeds of violence.”

— Homer 

‘Twas the blade he held in his hands,

The same that had proudly shone in red,

The same that had put many a man to his deathbed.

The scarlet spots faded, their memory remained, 

Many a moon passed, and so did the blade.

It was first of a warrior of the shadows, 

Or so the story went. 

The warrior used it to great perfection, 

So that it was never spent.

And although he wiped the blade where the red was stained, 

On his hands the red forever remained. 

The blade carried him to his deathbed,
Or he carried it to his, 

Whichever it was, he did not part with the blade, 

Until it ended him.

When found the blade his kin, 

He refrained not from continuing the sin, 

For he called it not a sin, but a mere courtesy to humanity. 

The stops of many more breaths, continued to paint the blade red, 

As it passed from hand to hand, its wielder only one thing said:

“‘Tis no wrongdoing, but a courtesy to humanity,

And the man who degrades it, shall contribute to the blade’s red.”

But since then, many winters had come and gone, 

Many holders, too, but lost in the pages of history, these words had remained unsaid. 

The blade no one had held in his hands for ages and ages, 

Until today, when the man had lifted it from ‘twixt the pages 

Of a manuscript ancient, whence he had come to know of this tale, 

And a man finally looked at its keen edge again, after many a war and many a gale.

His eyes shone with the sinister intent those who had come before him had shared, 

The same as the men before him who to cleanse the grime had cared.

For he now knew that the sin was no longer a sin, 

But a mere courtesy to humanity.

As he dressed himself in shadowy robes,

His eyes rested upon four words engraved on the rusted blade:

“Humanitatis maximum donum: mors.”

And that meant: “Humanity’s greatest gift: death.”