He looked intense
People said he ate little and smoked much
He cured many of physical ills
And claimed he walked with God
The sentences seemed flawless indeed
Nor had he fought with fists
Words were his sharp rapier
A friend implored me to read of him
Usually angry, her eyes shone then
She wanted that book back, too
That afternoon I scanned the pages
Allowing images of sallow cheeks, haunted eyes
Disturb the tranquil day
Summer sun shone on well-worn pages
As I wondered who he was
And how to later respond to her
The answer came in one word - crucible
As I began to shovel data into a furnace in me
Where the Word dwells
Some fragments burned to gold
Some dross or simply disappeared
So it was a man, after all
Will I be discreet, gushing or blunt to my friend?
The answer, too, will come
Just like it did that sunny afternoon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem