I have been like a blacksmith
Who forges only swords,
Sharp blades of war axes
Or heavy hammers
With flanged points.

Such were my arguments,
They were my thoughts,
They were my weapons,
They were my defenses,
The aggressive growl
Of a defensive animal.

I had plenty of resources,
To do whatever I wanted,
I could put my mind
On my most cherished themes.
But I didn't.
For I was a blacksmith
Forging weapons in a war.

I felt the urge of defending myself
From what could hurt
My soft inner-self.
So vulnerable,
Building defenses,
Fighting with courage
And strength.
I know
I am not vulnerable anymore.

Still, sometimes, there is a call to arms.
Or something that feels so.
Still, sometimes, I feel that urge.
To arm myself against a threat,
That maybe it's not even there.
I look at my molten metal,
And I imagine all the weapons
That I could craft.

But from now on,
I won't.
I look at all those metal,
All those would-be weapons
In my skilled hands.
And I think differently.
I can make so much more
With those materials and these skills.
I can be an artist, not a blacksmith.
I can be a statue of a horse out of bronze.
A bronze statue.
A bronze horse.

Yes, that would be wonderful!
So wonderful would it be to craft something
Out of love, or beauty, or interest or passion.
So different than building walls to defend you
And weapons to arm yourself.
So much more serenity in the process,
So much more satisfaction in the end.

And so, now I will built weapons no more.
I will build the bronze horses,
Or any other thing
That will make me yearn for something beautiful.