The iron wood.

The iron wood.
The iron threads has both
A soft flax and a silk,
And that, who weaved a cloth –
A wonder-cloth from it
He gently tames the steel,
As river this steel flows.
And as a wave can spread
From stage the Sound rolls.
He will not say, tell me,
Just tell me, I ask, please:
On white canvas, you see,
What this great mirages means.
His old coat’s from the smoke
And destiny’s cuneiform,
In iron wood he walked
And didn’t came back home.
He’s lost in iron wood,
Its winds have brought
Forgotten, leaved along,
The essence at unjust court,
At thunder and at storm.
But mud and dust and soot,
They do not know the Sound,
With crash and creaking they solute
And call him all around.
A wonder-clinking of that wood,
He’s found, playing threads, all day
But mud and dust and soot
Have banished him away.
The cut-grass grew
And sparks were running down lawn
And in the midnight dew
The miracle was born.
And how, for what he could
Returned in emptiness?
“There only mud and soot
Waite me”, he guessed.
He goes up as before,
With closed eyes, yes he does,
The clinking sounds low
For him but not for us
It’s easy, as it was
The figures to compose
A simple mirage that we pass
And call it simply Glass.