My tired, broken stone pounds away
on the anvil of life.
Too much time, too much to do, my forge
is filled with strife.
Your heart beats, but I’m buried too far down
to hear it.

In this house of madness, a factory for
glory and fame,
the smith works a mechanical work, hammering
away his shame.
His arms sweat blood, his veins are lead-filled,
but he does not tire.

Yet I can tire, I do tire, and that is the nature
of a life in the making.
Chained to the altar, fed prayer after swollen prayer,
ripe for the taking.
My robe is dirtied, stained and worn, but not
wrinkled nearly enough.

The priest, the smith, the lady is wrong.
I shall not give up.
I shall not die.
‘Tho I may tire and faint,
dizzy and stumbling,
they shall hear no complaint.
For I am ablaze
in my heavy labor.