Boxes of wood and iron

Each crate tells its tale

Some wrapped in red, others draped in blue

Some set upon sail, others to fly

Tens of thousands shipped to here or there

Serving its purpose to carry its cargo

All branded with tearful eye and cold stare

Hand crafted by masters who know

Still many more are left empty

With no name to receive

All charges for service free

Fate’s memory determined in drink and bereave

Twenty-one lead barrel

Two pence placed in sight’s range and scent clouded by frankincense

Six feet deep but dry is the inkwell

As chisel and hammer be webbed, so quiet, infinite silence