Sung by Tarma
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These are the hands that that wield a sword
With trained and practiced skill
These are the hands, and this the mind
Both honed and backed by will
Death is my partner, blood my trade,
And war my passion wild–
But these are the hands that also ache
To hold a tiny child
Suffer, they suffer the children,
When I see them, gods, how my heart breaks!
It is ever and always the children
Who will pay for their parents’ mistakes
Somehow they know that I’m a friend–
I see it in their eyes,
Somehow they sense a kindly heart–
So young, so very wise
Mine are the hands that maim and kill–
But children never care
They only know my hands are strong
And comfort is found there.
Little enough that I can do
To shield the young from pain
Not while their parents fight and die
For land, or goods, or gain.
All I can do is give them love
All I can do is strive
To teach them enough of my poor skill
To help them stay alive.