by Philip Monte Verde
The great blacksmith looms above us.
His hands are impossibly hard.
An even larger blacksmith must have made him.
Some unfathomable giant who creates men not of flesh,
But of steel.
Our hard man though,
He's closer to us;
A god lower in the strata.
The fire certainly bothers him.
He becomes a machine in need of oil,
Such is his battle with hydration.
Sweat empties out of his scalp.
The squeezed sponge,
It pours down his face,
Blinding eyes and soaking a beard
That drags down on his chin.
The drips trickle down his arms,
And he wipes those hard hands
On the rigid fabric worn by men of his trade.
I tell you this so you know,
He suffers too.
But this is no act of indentured servitude.
He is no slave, but master,
Our blacksmith is an artisan.
He is a creator, our creator.
And any artist knows the sacrifices that must be made
For perfection.
The fire can not be dimmed,
Nor the hammer swung with less furor,
And the day remains necessarily long.
Have sympathy, friend, empathy if you can.
The creator knows.
He knows how our skin feels when it touches the flame,
How our blood boils,
And of the callouses that form.
As time passes, he turns our body,
As the world turns,
And he hears our screams.
He places us on the anvil,
Which so resembles the executioner's block.
He takes in the fear we give off.
As his creation, this is as significant a moment for him,
As it is for you.
The blows will hurt, they have to.
But we must be strong,
Strong as his aged arms.
We must not break,
In order to become better.
And when we are lifted whole from the anvil,
And dunked in the cooling tub,
Our relief is contagious.
As we bathe in water,
The smith reaches for a glass of his own,
And mutters a satisfied toast.
When he picks us up again
We catch the light.
Not the flame that warped us,
But the very sun.
We glint that solar magnificence back.
We shine, the blacksmith smiles,
And we are so much more.
The great blacksmith looms above us.
His hands are impossibly hard.
An even larger blacksmith must have made him.
Some unfathomable giant who creates men not of flesh,
But of steel.
Our hard man though,
He's closer to us;
A god lower in the strata.
The fire certainly bothers him.
He becomes a machine in need of oil,
Such is his battle with hydration.
Sweat empties out of his scalp.
The squeezed sponge,
It pours down his face,
Blinding eyes and soaking a beard
That drags down on his chin.
The drips trickle down his arms,
And he wipes those hard hands
On the rigid fabric worn by men of his trade.
I tell you this so you know,
He suffers too.
But this is no act of indentured servitude.
He is no slave, but master,
Our blacksmith is an artisan.
He is a creator, our creator.
And any artist knows the sacrifices that must be made
For perfection.
The fire can not be dimmed,
Nor the hammer swung with less furor,
And the day remains necessarily long.
Have sympathy, friend, empathy if you can.
The creator knows.
He knows how our skin feels when it touches the flame,
How our blood boils,
And of the callouses that form.
As time passes, he turns our body,
As the world turns,
And he hears our screams.
He places us on the anvil,
Which so resembles the executioner's block.
He takes in the fear we give off.
As his creation, this is as significant a moment for him,
As it is for you.
The blows will hurt, they have to.
But we must be strong,
Strong as his aged arms.
We must not break,
In order to become better.
And when we are lifted whole from the anvil,
And dunked in the cooling tub,
Our relief is contagious.
As we bathe in water,
The smith reaches for a glass of his own,
And mutters a satisfied toast.
When he picks us up again
We catch the light.
Not the flame that warped us,
But the very sun.
We glint that solar magnificence back.
We shine, the blacksmith smiles,
And we are so much more.
