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Word, why are you not solid steel, That in battle gleams with fire and zeal? Why not a sword, so sharp and fierce, That strikes the foe and their ranks pierce?

You, my language—sincere and refined, I’m ready to draw you, well-designed, But you spill blood from my own heart, And fail to pierce the enemy’s part...

I’ll sharpen and polish this radiant blade, With all the strength and skill I’ve made, Then hang it high upon the wall— For others, comfort; for me, a pall.

Word, my only weapon true, We must not perish, me and you. Perhaps in hands of unknown kin You’ll strike the tyrants deep within.

Your edge will clash with iron chains, Echo through fortress halls and pains, Meet the clang of other swords, And rise with free, unshackled words.

Avengers strong will take my blade, And boldly join the war they’ve made... O weapon mine, serve warriors well— Far better than these hands that fell. `