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The jeweler has a shop on the corner of the boulevard |
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In the night, in small spectacles, he polishes old coins |
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He uses spit and cloth and ashes |
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He makes them shine with ashes |
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He knows the use of ashes |
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He worships God with ashes |
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The coins are often very old by the time they reach the jeweler |
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With his hands and ashes he will try the best he can |
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He knows that he can only shine them |
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Cannot repair the scratches |
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He knows that even new coins have scars so he just smiles |
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He knows the use of ashes |
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He worships God with ashes |
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In the darkest of the night both his hands will blister badly |
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They will often open painfully and the blood flows from his hands |
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He works to take from black coin faces the thumbprints from so many ages |
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He wishes he could cure the scars |
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When he forgets he sometimes cries |
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He knows the use of ashes |
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He worships God with ashes |
