The embers died out
And the anvil no longer sings
With the beating of the hammer
The mighty bellows
Once wielded a gust of progress
Now stand vacant
Empty
The long-since abandoned place
Is silent
And no weathered hand
Holds the tong steady
A bucket stands desolate and rusted
The handle went to better places
The bottom used to be covered
In the chilling liquid
From the dried-out well around the corner
The bricks stand
Yet they keep nothing neither in nor out
A bent pipe turned towards the sun
A wept quietly with an orange glow
Down the street, between the shelters
There’s this strange little girl
She watches me
Watches me work
One day, she took my hand
Softly, gentle
She gazed her olive-green eyes
Towards the horizon
And with a voice like a tiny harp
She asked me:
“Why are we here?
What did we do?
What did we do?”
Qa'Rajh Creations 