He puts his talent to a lonely skill,
Working at what never comes easily.
Truth answers only when his heart is still,
A hunter who must set the hunted free.
The old soul has inhabited the night,
He rests awhile, but not to fall asleep,
Leaning forward to touch a stream of light,
He labors only when the cost is steep.
On his palm, the lines speaking of age,
Say nothing of what he has given life,
What he has earned, even without a wage,
With great precision, sober with the knife,
Exacting as he takes his time to hone
The handiwork, the fruit, his job to pare.
In doing this, he does so all alone,
In secret only, when his heart is bare.
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