The Wind-cast Iron

  From the tips of his brow to the raw soles of his feet,

salty pools of sweat dripped from his sun-burnt skin.

In a distant and faint memory, he can smell the aquafresh

aroma of cool, crisp, refreshing water. At this harsh reverie

his coarse dry throat clenches for just a single drop.

 The starting to over heat iron rod in his calloused hand

seemed hotter than before and slightly scalds his worn flesh.

  A small breeze from the north casts little flecks of cooling liquid

metal debris into the confined air. Small bits nibble at his arms 

and bare chest.

 This breeze, like a little gift from the Gods, clothed his hot skin.

In that wonderous moment freedom felt more of a reality.

 

 

 

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