Brought from Gehenna's churning flame,
The blade that haven't peace or light,
Bloody, rusty, scarred, and brittle,
It yearns for molten's malicious might.

In need of the forge’s coating spittle,
Alloy in silence remains allured,
Smothered by embers that never die,
Worn and torn, destined to be rebuilt,
To burn harshly under blackened sky.

Bring the fool who grips thy hilt
Be rid of such sin; there's no end within,
And escape the darkness covered by guilt,
By the end of the road, when their flesh is thinned,
And in Gehenna, they join the sinned.