during the climax of a soon to end brawl,
then I’d rather it be at the blade of my sword
than at the hands of the enemies with which we now warred.
My sword already knew the taste of horrible gore.
The skin of our own leader, it had earlier torn,
and now it avenged the death it had caused
a nonstop killing feast, without even a pause.
But my honor was overthrown as my hands did grow weak.
I could not stab myself, my blood refused to leak.
So I went to my servant, who all the while stood by
and told him my wish: that I wished to die.
But before he could drive the sword into me,
I promised him one thing, that he could be free.
On the same day as my first, I do take my last breath.
I’ve learned to accept my fate; this date is my death.
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