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Like the blade of a samurai sword when forged,
bent inwards upon itself three thousand times
in the cherry red of its making,
and plunged countless moments
into the secret waters, are the faces of love.

Raw and white hot in its first birthing
on the anvil of the mind
and gently moulded and drawn out
by the craftsman's hands into the fragile,
first shape of brittle design, not yet flawless,
but recognisable in the order of things.

And finding its right form beyond the crucible,
imbued with the spirit and breath of the maker,
changing the very essence of the once
formless billet with the hardening strokes
of experience, and often thrust without regret
into the tempering trough of sorrow and bitterness.

But yet emerging changed in form and substance,
the glittering edge of reason and understanding,
and waiting patient for the final honing
of tolerance reflecting in all the glory
the light which shone
in the master craftsman's eyes.

And at last the cry of triumph
as it wheels the arc, the maker spent
and sheened with sweat in the agony
of his furnace, yet grateful for the balance
and the form glowing in potential,
the bright blade reflecting
the justice and hope of all it sees.

Yet to serve the love by which it was made,
not yet dipped in the blood of foolish humanity
or the shocking impact of a full charge
in the relentless battle of good and evil,
but sheathed without comment
in the armoury of hope,
waiting for selection and the final breaking
on the fields of truth.

John A. Moller
Whiskey Two Company RNZIR


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