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December 11, 2000

From N. Barry Carver

Swords Are Tempered Slowly
- For My Friend Bonnie, with my prayers.

(Any blade can stab you
Cause damage, give pain,
But the one your trials makes you
Can withstand awful strain.)

The forge is a taste of Hell
Hot sparks, deep burn,
But that lurid cauldron's metal
Is stable, solid, stern.

When returned to water
Sputtering, acrid steam,
Quickly calmed down to murmur -
Then the blast of Hell again.

The anvil tests it further
Crushing, claxon ring,
Beaten into shaped surrender -
Deadly hot and sharpening.

When the trials all give way
Great pressure, bright fire,
A sword is made by close of day:
Deadly tool but purposed higher.

All unneeded torn away,
Charred and wrenched from mire,
Torturous pain tempers a blade,
Gives a resolve, which we admire.

(Hot, bitter tears you've paid,
Suffered unfocusable ire... but,
Hurts and sorrows on us laid
Make us worthy to inspire.)

Posted by bonnie at December 11, 2000 10:47 AM