A samurai’s sword in the corner by the bed,
Not someone’s gift, not a souvenir —
The dreamed-of weapon of an army’s chief,
It has enchanted the master since ancient times.

The worn plow returned to the furnace,
It flapped in sheets
And bent in layers
Many times.
Tempering in ice strengthened the metal
So much that it even splits silence in two.

With knocks in the forge he annoyed the neighbors,
He ate poorly and slept little,
The blacksmith worked.
Why he lived — he found out to the end.
He lifted it in his hands,
Knelt on one knee
And not a katana*, but with a bow and with dignity
To you, country,
He gave himself.
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•Katana — a kind of samurai sword.