The Anvil’s Revenge

The blacksmith's

Hardened ancient arms,

Wrestin’ scorching steel,

Forming mighty weapons,

All against their will.

His salty sweat

Mixes fast

With blistered love and hate.

He might have chosen tools to build,

Or railings and a gate.

His knives and swords,

The lengths of chain,

Simple things like nails;

Punched and pounded; straight and rounded,

For the Gates of Hell.

From Vishvakarma's devas,

His art and architects,

To Ilmarinen’s bow, and arch, and oar;

Evil-hearted; dead-departed,

Seeking less, but stealing more.

Whose roots?

(These Master Killing Fields)

Blood-Harvest from what seed?

’tis Tubal-Cain, the Garden’s pain,

From Eve and Adam’s deed.

“Goodbye, Goodbye!”

Dear blacksmith,

Closing down your shop.

No more decay, a lighter day,

All your weapons stopped.

“Goodbye, Goodbye!”

Dear blacksmith,

Tomorrow start again.

With golden plows and milk-filled cows

For Rachel and her men.