“After years of war he sees his home again for the first time. His tools lie rusted in the field where nature has grown in his absence. A heaviness grips him. In his heart he longs to set his sword against the wall; to rust and rot and to never be taken up again. May the earth cleanse his hands and his sweat ease his burden. But, the sword will lie hidden in some dusty place under the eaves…. Sharp, silent and ready.”

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