THE CRAFT

Let us give them smooth bones

By the stones of the sea,

The type with a trillion tiny holes,

As brittle as can be.

Let us give them muscles 

By the fibers of the leeks

And bend the tips to touch their tails,

Connected at the seams.

Let us stir the depths of brine,

And take from there a sponge.

Let us lay it flat and trace the lines

To fashion fresh, new lungs.

Let us blow into the water,

As bubbles rise to break the surface,

Let us snatch them up and 

When we’ve collected enough,

May there be born a breath, at their bursting.

Let us give them eyes by the ocean’s pearl,

To see all that we have made.

Let us give them a land 

On which to stand,

And be glad in the heat of the day.

But there is one thing we don’t have…

That’s fear of death, nor fear of man.

So let them inherit our voice,

That this creation might laugh

As we fall back to admire 

The Master’s Craft.

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