The workshop is quiet now.
Rust, dried blood and a smell that stings the eyes.
Metal corrodes slowly beneath stale fluid.
A patchwork of stains.
Concrete once only smelled of paint.
And now ...
Dust particles cloud the air;
Sackcloth discarded; torn to shreds.
Old blunt tools that have never tasted wood,
Or steel, or stone, or oil.
Rust, dried blood
The workshop is quiet