From the Iron Cemetery

My grandfather worked with metal until the day he died. He used to say, No one has ever seen the true face of iron. We cannot truly know its form of yesterday, nor its shape of tomorrow. For iron, of which 25 million tons of scrap are reborn each year, the electric furnace is both a cemetery and a cradle. Iron’s death does not remain in one place. After death, birth awaits. Grandfather said, People enter the cemetery only once, but are rocked in the cradle many times, not knowing how to live— without realizing that today’s airplane will become tomorrow’s can, without knowing that iron stands next to them. Today, at the intersection, we pass by iron, again.