This sword does not like to remember ever being wielded.
It does not want to be an it, but has no ability to speak or move, nay, identify, and so “it” it remains.
It has never seen blood but its world is that of fire.
Its handle is of finely worked metal, the sort that makes it think it once had a scabbard made of equally finely worked leather.
The sword hasn’t seen that scabbard in many years.
Its blade is naked, cold when the fire doesn’t roar.
It is lonely among the matching vases, who gossip with the wind over their open tops.
The only way that this sword might sing would be when whipped from that scabbard it barely remembers.
To have the scabbard back would mean going back three hundred years, to times of violence.
The sword no longer minds the silence so much, knowing that silence means times of peace.