Wrought Iron
On a quiet sunday morning
the prayers are echoing from a nearby Chapel.
A village Blacksmith rests for a while
leaving his big hammer aside.
His daughter has gone to sunday school
with the farmer's twin sons.
Wife makes bread rolls and a porridge
and busy in the kitchen.
He heard a rare whisper in the workshop.
An iron strip shrieks,
'let me live happily
until I get rusty and die,
Boss, why do you try to hammer
and give me a shape with a temper?
sharpen me and make a sword
you want me to be head the mankind.
leave me alone,
and if you are not an adamant
please make me a sickle.
*Dedication to the Weapon Manufacturerers.
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
Added by Poetry Lover
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