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Poem

Smith was hide and water,
hide shone,
water flowed,
heat was intense,
as the furnace roared,
and neared smith's hand,
his gloves had blackened,
by the leaping flames,
his eyes were widened,
by the red of the flames,
his perspiration was in streams and all water,
his skin by osmosis with fire was red,
and now shone,
his hard worked muscles rippled,
as he hammered on molten wrought to give shape,
his life was just this,
each day he worked the hours wanted and needed,
and he quietly wound it all at end,
he slipped in a quick supper,
that was hearty and rustic,
and then fell on the bed,
which had no cushions,
I wondered always with lot of awe,
as a child I had seen him thus,
and he was still doing that,
after years,
what he had gained and what he had lost,
one day  I queried him straight,
he simply shrugged and was brusque,
putting it simply he said,
I do not know much,
and cannot think of life,
but go to any household in this hamlet,
and you would see me in each house,
in the form of shaped iron,
that you use in more ways than one,
my awe had turned to admiration,
I turned back,
saying he does deserve his good night's sleep,
which most of us are hard to get.

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