The Technician by Jonah Hirsch

I met a poet on a poised green pasture,
   who said, “see that spot of Earth you cannot,
see the way the sun’s rays strike you and I
   and black shadows dampen the ground like dye,
that is my opus.”

I met a painter on a great mountain peak,
   he said, “oh, how I toiled with canvas and palette
up this jagged mountain, and when you critique my piece,
   never will you know how swiftly that light on the horizon ceased,
that is my opus.”

I met a balladeer in a morning forest,
   she said, “hear my sorrowful song, and wipe your tears,
fill your ears with my voices strain of countless years,
   passing the pain of lost love in my grieving song,
that is my opus.”

I met an architect on a lone ship at sea,
   he said, “I look past the water’s edge and envision a glass house,
and when you break bread and rear children in my houses
   I revel in the making of home in the clear panes I imagined,
that is my opus.”

I met a technician in a laboratory,
   who told me, “my post is neutral, my creations few,
yet I observe, I hypothesize, I test what might save you
   from these mysterious dances you so choose to pursue,
that is my opus.”