The Anvil

Slowly slashing the air with an old pagan-style hammer
A blacksmith is concentrating on a little piece of metal
As if there were no other objects in the room
no curious inquisitive eyes spotlighting his steel muscles,
scratched knuckles and, of course… the anvil
this gorgeous birthplace of art and an executioner's block

Gothic steeples of derelict temples
secure fences of costly mansions, pendants, sconces,
forks, daggers, shields, bucklers, door-knobs
what will it be this time?
sparkles playing, running, fleeing the anvil
I’m feeling the air vibrating to the rhythm of each blow

The world is just an image
of morphine fancies streaming through television tubes
And wobbling in the electric shock waves
Of everyday trivia
Days and nights with eternal playback
Run somewhere else, a block away…
Mesmerized I’m stitched to the cast-iron beauty,
To the dress-meat, gory, maniacal tool
With a godly name – anvil
Leaving your tongue with a sigh
And getting lost in the noise of rhythmic strikes
Of the hammer