This morning, Dallas spoke about poets vs. wordsmiths and about the end of hatred. I wrote this one last night before I saw her comments today.
THE WORDSMITH AND THE BLACKSMITH
Wordsmith: Here is my plowshare, forge me a sword
With blade strong and sharp to cut a thick cord.
Blacksmith: I cannot do so, my forge has grown old,
My fire is dying and my hammer is cold.
Wordsmith: I am tired of planting strange seeds unknown,
Digging for words that no one has sown.
Blacksmith: Words can be sharp, as sharp as cold steel
To cut and to slash, when angry you feel.
Wordsmith: I cannot untangle the web I have wrought,
Its knots are too tight; to untie them I’ve sought.
Blacksmith: No sword can cut the strands of such words,
Once they are spoken, forever they’re heard.
Wordsmith: Then I will lie still in the heart of my web,
Wordless, unmoving, like Ocean at ebb.
Blacksmith: I fear you will sing the songs of your heart,
Until the last moment, when the web falls apart.
Wordsmith: Perhaps you are right; I must continue to sing,
And hope that some peace the future will bring.
Blacksmith: Peace is mythology, although you’re afraid,
Use well your plowshare that for you I’ve made.
Wordsmith: And as the Night takes me, I’ll think of you,
Hoping and praying that your words were true.