The ore in the crucible is pungent, smelling like acrid wine.
It is dusky red like the ebb of poppies,
And purple like the blood of elderberries.
Surely it is a strong wine—juice distilled of the fierce iron.
I am drunk of its fumes;
I feel its fiery flux
Diffusing, permeating,
Working some strange alchemy …
So that I turn aside from the goodly board,
So that I look askance upon the common cup,
And from the mouths of crucibles
Suck forth the acrid sap.
Iron Wine
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