There’s quite a lot of wordsmiths,
an art, just like a blacksmith,
you can beat into you.
But only the hands burnt in bellows,
charred face and eyes jaundice yellow,
liver blackened by the anger,
the hurt, the love that still mellows,
will be able to raise your hairs on end,
speak of beauty and sorrow,
play out lines,
like an aged cello.
W.E.
