My saddest knife:-(

This is the saddest knife I made, still not mounted after all these years. I just could not stand working on it, because it hurt. Call me a sentimental old fart, but that´s how it is. I forged this one on the very last night in the garden of my old home. It was the darkest night of the year, two days before Chrismas. All our possessings except the forge and shop were already moved, and yes, they drove us out at that time of year... It was cold, and snow fell on my way through the woods (Went there by walking). When I reached the shop, it stopped, and the stars came out. I lit the forge in the darkness, using charcoal I had made myself in the garden. I forged this one with the dirt forge from an old cold chisel. At first, I wanted to make an Athamen, but I let it cool in the ashes. I had some beers too much beside the dying embers, while a piece of my heart died with them. I just sat there, and I knew I would never again be able to be there. Yap, I cried my fill, but the cold, cold stars were there to soothe my searing wound that was to become my heart. Frost came, and it went colder still, and I made for the long and lonely walk home. The blade I left in the dying embers to anneal and for the stars to shine upon it. But another smith came to forge it, and his hammer was older, colder and mightier than mine; frost bit a crack along the middle of that would- be Athamen. I have not yet quite understood the story that this tells, but I want to understand it. I ground one half away in Matthias Zwissler´s smithy, who was so kind to teach me and let me do it. There now is just a tiny hairline crack along the integral side, but runs away from the blade, so I will use it. The wood for the handle lies beside it, and it´s a part from an old rotten 98 K Wehrmachts carbine I found in the lake when the dam was to be repaired. Noone wanted it, so it´s still at my mother´s. It lay forsaken for sixty years, deep in the water. It is a part of a weapon thrown away because peace made its violent way. I like to see it this way. You can see it otherwise, but still there are sixty years of lying submerged in the water, beneath the trees, the wind in the leaves. I see it as a gift of the power I worship, which has so many names and still no name that comes close to it. I will make a bronze buttcap to counterweight the dark walnut wood, and I forged a dragonhead to top it off. But I still have to take my time.