Jun 042015
 
Pummeled I groan from boy to bier,
On my head the hammer of fifty years;
White sparks that from my being flare
Hiss to show the blacksmith that I care.
Shaped to suffer what weights are heaved,
What heats the pestered forge unsheaths;
I came to love what met my flame,
Tempered by the love they claimed.

Now I cool old;  I wait for starless night
Where my still fire may seem a little bright.

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