Cracked, weathered, pig-skinned tools

affectionately craft

softest, supple, virgin-hands of suede.

Desert: my mountains,

sky scrapers: your zenith.

Let innocence climb high,

let your suede caress treasures.

Endless, metallic guides of steel,

cradle my priceless work of life,

assure any failure: only a fault of my own,

a greatest mistake: of me, a clone.

In time, you, too, will come to this place:

softest, supple, virgin-hands of suede

churn out

intricate, exotic, hard-willed ivory.

From my rest, I look on

and see our heart of gold will come.