Iron Filigree

Every hammer in the world

and nothing worth the swinging.

Every blade held perfect still

and nothing worth the edge.

I've watched the strong go stupid

and the clever go to waste —

two halves of the same failure

standing on opposite hills.

So bring the weight. Bring the thread.

Nothing worth building comes from one —

Iron and filigree,

the club and the needle in one hand.

Power without the aim behind it

is just a louder way to miss.

Iron and filigree —

build it heavy, build it exact.

Anything less is decoration or debris.

The loudest man I ever met

could not tell you what he wanted.

The finest hands I ever saw

had never once been tested.

Give the sculptor a hurricane,

give the hurricane a plan,

and stand well back from what arrives.

So bring the weight. Bring the thread.

Nothing that lasts came from one —

Iron and filigree,

the fist and the compass in one grip.

Precision with no engine under it

is a beautiful stalled thing.

Iron and filigree —

build it heavy, build it exact.

Anything less gets swept up in the morning.

Iron and filigree,

and here's what nobody tells the young:

the strong ones die of aimlessness,

the delicate die of never being used —

so weld them. Weld them in one body.

Build it heavy. Build it exact.

Then swing it at something that deserves it.