Mother told the tale,
About our ancestors’ deal,
The oath that we now live by:
We were soldiers, once,
We served lords by ending lives,
Until none but ours survived.
We turned to old faiths,
So that sins may wash away,
From our bloodied hands and eyes.
But then, it is said,
That those who live by the sword,
May never find peace in life.
So came our clan’s oath:
“We shall trade sword for the pen,
From now, to the very end.”
‘Twas not so simple,
And it’s odd to think me damned,
But so the oath goes:
“To absolve our sins of sword,
We pledge to use pen and brush.”
Written in a slightly alternating waka poetry style found in traditional Japanese poetry, the prompt is from my estimable colleague and distant relative, S-, who was asked to create an autobiographical poem for a university assignment and so inquired, “What is the story your mother used to tell about us being a family of artists?”
Discarded Recollections 