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.
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