The Jeweller - This Mortal Coil

The jeweler

Has a shop

On the corner of the boulevard

In the night

In small spectacles

He polishes old coins

He uses spit and cloth and ashes

He makes them shine with ashes

He knows the use of ashes

He worships God with ashes

The coins are often very old

By the time they reach the jeweler

With his hands and ashes

He will try the best he can

He knows that he can only shine them

Cannot repair the scratches

He knows that even new coins have scars

So he just smiles

In the darkest of the night

Both his hands will blister badly

They will often open painfully

And the blood flows from his hands

He works to take from black coin faces

Thumbprints from so many ages

He wishes he could cure the scars

When he forgets he sometimes cries