The Anvil

Iron does not cry
Beat it until it cries, and it cries

Three days now I have not let the fire out
The bellows breathes in a man's place
What they carted in from the villages is piled in the yard
I do not ask what that is
If it is iron, it will do

I melt it
I melt the bell
I melt it
I melt the chains
Iron does not ask what it used to be
And it does not ask what it will become
I do not make swords
I only melt down what is left

A bell came from the temple
A bell that had rung for a hundred years
The monk set it down and left without a word
Chains came from the magistrate's office
Who they had bound, I do not know
A pot came from somebody's house
A pot that had cooked rice
And iron came from the handle of some scholar's brush
It was small, so it became an arrowhead

Iron remembers
Melt it and it still remembers
Even as a sword, there is a bell inside it

I melt it
I melt the bell
I melt it
I melt the chains
Iron does not ask what it used to be
And it does not ask what it will become
I do not make swords
I only melt down what is left

The young ones line up
Give me a sword
I told them it has not cooled yet
They said give it anyway
They took the hot thing in their bare hands and went
Their hands will have burned
On the road going north
There must be something more urgent than a hand

Fire burns
Salt preserves
Iron remembers
And I beat on the memory