Blacksmith
I watched a blacksmith work in humble silence asserting smooth mastery over iron and flame his hands calloused with years of experience. I knew that my hands, clumsy and unsteady as they were Would never glide with such subtle eloquence, given a thousand lifetimes of gruel and toil. Genes care little for desire, My mind spawns wonders of every medium this bountiful rock provides But my hands stumble and slip in their directions. The fires of my soul rage on in an unquenchable torrent Yet my art smolders and struggles; the fire is contained within. I thought of the blacksmith, of his simple extravagance, and wept. Written February 25th, 2002 © on Feb 25 2002 02:25 PM PST 18 • 0 • 1
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"I watched a blacksmith work in humble silence..."