Motions of Metalwork

I hold the hammer, and to the anvil strike,

That ting that sings in my deepest bone,

I can craft that which I like,

But my hands are not my own.

I create with metal, oh my deepest desire,

But I feel my own person is more on loan,

I set the items to the forge fire,

But my hands are not my own.

My heart singing, rhythm guided by the sound,

That glisten, that shine, that is well known,

The idea into reality, squelched by the waters of the ground,

But still… My hands are not my own.

I feel myself away when I work, gone,

The hands of spirit instead, into my own flesh is sewn.

I cannot stop, I keep working, I hold on,

Even though my hands are not my own.

I hold the item, gingerly like a gem,

Chanting and singing over the sharpening stone.

It came not from me, but from Them –

Because when I forge,

My hands are not my own.

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