The Red Memory of Metal

It is no flaw, nor oblivion’s bite,
but the echo of an earth returning.
On bare iron, with deaf patience slow,
a slow red tide begins to flow.
It is time’s pigment, an ancient blood
that surfaces in weaves, in silent wood,
a story without voice, yet vivid and deep,
of summer rains and winter vows to keep.

It spreads in crusts, in delicate veils,
creating red islands, unexpected trails.
Each scale that yields, each shining trace,
is a fragment of history you embrace.
It is not the end, but a new start mixed,
where the mineral dreams of what it has fixed,
and the weary iron, in its contrast bright,
dresses its long process in glorious light.