The Glassblower's Tale

Before the dawn has kissed the sky

I tread where roaring furnace lies

The morning's chill is left behind

For fire consumes both flesh and mind

The molten river glows like gold

Yet burns the hands that dare to hold

With breath I coax the shapeless flame

Yet fragile forms bear not my name

The master's clock allows no rest

Its iron hands command my chest

Ten hours, twelve, perhaps yet more

Until my weary bones grow sore

The furnace breathes a dragon's sigh

With blistered heat that never dies

It scorches skin, it steals the air

And leaves its soot in lungs laid bare

Young boys, no older than my son

Run with the glass till day is done

Their faces shine with sweat and fear

Yet still they're told to persevere

I've seen good men with scarred hands shake

And watched fine craftsmen's bodies break

A slip, a spark, a shard of light

A life can vanish in the night

Yet still I shape the glowing sphere

For beauty often blooms from fear

A crystal goblet, clear and bright

Was born from smoke and endless night

The gentry praise its flawless grace

They never see the maker's face

Nor hear the cough that racks his chest

Nor know how little earns his rest

But when the evening shadows fall

And silence settles over all

I lift my eyes beyond the flame

Where every star burns just the same

Perhaps one day these hands, now worn

Will rest where cooler winds are born

And someone, gazing through the glass

Will think upon the lives that pass

For every pane that greets the sun

For every vessel finely spun

Was paid for not in gold alone

But sweat and fire, flesh and bone