From the Celestial Armory
In time of war,
when barbarians storm the gates,
you are the tip of the sword
that fells the hordes who come
to put widow and orphan in bondage.
You strike so as to be my shield
and the foe is quick to flee or surrender.
Yet it is in peacetime when your strengths
are more wonderful to me
than a crown of many jewels.
Where the ground is hardened,
I call on you,
and there, my ploughshare,
you turn over soil that has been spent
by generations of drought and famine.
The soil groans as you open it
once again to the winds above
so you may turn into it the fertilizer
of yesteryear’s pruned branches– burnt
so as to plant in these wastelands.
I call you to irrigate.
I send the rains.
I send the waters.
I send the light,
and you watch and wait.
Our vitality sprouts
forth new life from the once
You know all the truth
of that for which I made you.
After each harvest, after each battle,
knowing the toll you have spent,
I give you rest, then hone you
into a sharper blade than before
sent forth to soften yet harder hearts.