I. Shantih The corn crop forges the souls of childhood, A place of eclectic tranquility, Where we lop off the stalks with our sword-sticks Vanquishing goblins in our rage. It is a game played as the sun blazes in the sky While we decapitate it in the fields. We are as King Offa, flaying the sniggering Ceolred. As darkness falls, we cannibalize our victims, Tossing them into cauldrons of boiling water. II. The Forge Lamp crash The slap of flesh meeting flesh. The goblins have been replaced with heroes Impossible to vanquish. Or is it that now that we are the goblins, Fulfilling our destiny at the end of barbs and darts Coated with poisons that go straight to our hubris? A screech, sunset; gnashing of teeth. It is a terrible thing in war to realize that your hatred for the enemy Is the same feeling the enemy has for you. There are only heroes and monsters; We must all be monsters to someone. III. The Forge Extinguished One learns to accept failure One learns to accept defeat One learns to accept mediocrity, and put out the forge, And roam with the resulting steam Dissipating into acceptance of the dim. Samaajatu aniyat minna layunu biha Aan kulu hasan bada iwa mantharin ajabin.