Biography of a Sword
The scimitar behind the glass
lies naked on its velvet bed.
A placard estimates its mass
but leaves the body count unsaid.
A general held it, then a king.
Impartially it did their will
with blade and pommel, lunge and swing.
Its legend waxed from kill to kill.
Promoted to a metaphor,
its aspect changed; the palmworn hilt
grew diamonds, and the scars it wore
surrendered to a coat of gilt.
And now it sleeps through whispered praise
and grave appraisals of its worth:
a ploughshare dreaming of the days
it signed its name in famished earth.
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/v9/poetry/shekhar-aiyar/diary-tourist?s=fa35b124088db092ab1b4ce024d0b588
[2] https://www.ablemuse.com/v9/poetry/shekhar-aiyar/dover?s=fa35b124088db092ab1b4ce024d0b588