You are not the blacksmith.
Do not forget.
Though you will be tempted.

History does not repeat itself,
though it sometimes rhymes.
This poem does not rhyme,
but it will repeat itself.

You are not the blacksmith.

You did not forge the horseshoes
or fit them, or feed the oats.
Your armor did not weigh you down
as you rode to battle
waving banners
for a king who drank miles away
while wizards amused him
with engines bound to wheels.

The horse became the car.
The blacksmith the mechanic.
The stable boy sold gas and slurpees.
The knight now rode a tank
but still died in the war.

The wizard stroked his beard:
"Perhaps one day
the horse will drive itself.
The king, of course, will still drink his fill.
But the knight may live
to see his sons grow,
and the blacksmith
will forge jewels, not shoes."

And he was right.
That day will come.

But you are not the blacksmith.
You are the horse.