Just a little something that crawled out of my brain and onto paper this evening...thought y'all might like it...
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The Soul of the Knife...
By Morgan Atwood (C) 2001
My soul you will find in this piece of steel,
For my sweat doth pour onto it as I hold it upon the wheel.
My blood hath been spilt upon it, as I wear no gloves when I grind,
In this blade, you will find all of me, all of my soul and mind.
My very essence has gone into this simple tool,
I ask that ye take this blade, and that ye use it well, but abuse it not, the blade feels nothing but unto me that would be cruel.
This blade is a piece of me,
And if I made it well, it will soon become a piece of thee.
Each and every one is unique...save one thing,
The blood and sweat from un-gloved hand of its maker, hath run in tune to grinders purr, and hammers ring.
The soul of this knife, is the soul of me,
I the maker, give this gift, with the understanding of where this blade is to be.
Its to be, upon your belt, or in your pack, or even in a case,
As long as you take it and use it well for you, and respect it, where it is, is its destined place.
Into your hand, I lay this knife, it came not from a piece of steel,
It came from my soul. It came not from being ground upon contact wheel.
It came from the mind, soul and hands of a man,
This may not be the best in the world, but it will do its job, have no doubts, it can.
My only wishes that it serves thee well, that ye walk the fields with pride, and the streets without fear.
And as I hand the knife over to its destined owner, as I say goodbye, I give unto the blade one last piece of my soul, a silent tear.
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The Soul of the Knife...
By Morgan Atwood (C) 2001
My soul you will find in this piece of steel,
For my sweat doth pour onto it as I hold it upon the wheel.
My blood hath been spilt upon it, as I wear no gloves when I grind,
In this blade, you will find all of me, all of my soul and mind.
My very essence has gone into this simple tool,
I ask that ye take this blade, and that ye use it well, but abuse it not, the blade feels nothing but unto me that would be cruel.
This blade is a piece of me,
And if I made it well, it will soon become a piece of thee.
Each and every one is unique...save one thing,
The blood and sweat from un-gloved hand of its maker, hath run in tune to grinders purr, and hammers ring.
The soul of this knife, is the soul of me,
I the maker, give this gift, with the understanding of where this blade is to be.
Its to be, upon your belt, or in your pack, or even in a case,
As long as you take it and use it well for you, and respect it, where it is, is its destined place.
Into your hand, I lay this knife, it came not from a piece of steel,
It came from my soul. It came not from being ground upon contact wheel.
It came from the mind, soul and hands of a man,
This may not be the best in the world, but it will do its job, have no doubts, it can.
My only wishes that it serves thee well, that ye walk the fields with pride, and the streets without fear.
And as I hand the knife over to its destined owner, as I say goodbye, I give unto the blade one last piece of my soul, a silent tear.
.