Tea with Hephaestus

Watching the hands of the crafter
		who fashioned me

I see that they are shaking a little
		your golden servant in the corner reflects

hands clutching a tray with cups
		steaming liquid added

too hot to drink comfortably
		at the table where I am sitting

the table where I was born
		the crafter limps towards me

stone walls bear down like
		harsh words from disappointed parents

you did not have much choice in the matter
		a ringing in lame ears

sounds like moulding pressure
		to the obedient

I have a strong wish to forgive
		the many gifts of relatives

things that linger for a long time
		in the blood.
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