The Dagger

The Dagger left the corpse and red followed.

The spell broke, the dagger awoke.

A horror-some act, he thought

to kill, cold blooded,

An act of horror, he had wrought.

"Don't you worry, you little mouse"

the creator said, "this is your work."

"Many an arms you would slit,

Be it a Pole, Canadian or a Turk."

"Many an intestine you would cut,

Many a hand and leg.

Finishing your work,

leaving the victim unable to beg."

Was this all he was?

An instrument with no soul or brain,

A weapon of destruction,

destined to cause pain.

Was the red permanent?

A stain on a perfect cutlery.

Or optimistically, it was,

a scar of victory.

Could he be defined,

by origin his of?

A murderer of masses,

unless he went off.

"No" he said "I will fight,

I will precede the other mice."

The red was washed, cleaned even

when he did himself baptize.

When asked about,

this was his statement,

"Between origin and destination,

there is a displacement."

And the dagger spent

the rest of his life,

cutting bread into many a slice.