Fallen trees, awash with winds once blown,
Adorn with silent grace and natural form,
As bough, to branch, to bud, now home
In shelter ours; their trunks hereafter warm.
Likewise comes the cold and battered smith,
With beauty bright in these, our heartless times,
New winds cry “change” and make creation myth:
Forgotten skills, abandoned arts, made crimes.
Too long this web has spread a hastened lie
And caught too many unsuspecting fools.
Our walls shall this new deceit decry
With homage paid to artists wielding tools.
This is our venture, humble in its birth;
A confluence for dreamers near and far.
Artists come sell your wares with mirth.
Rest, drink and enjoy this, The Bazaar.