India - the sonnet

I made weapons to kill for Mir Ali;

though Muslim, he came from India

and dotted every "i"; crossed every "t"

his name approved my deadly media.

Now i don't want his job or the lucre

but empty my soul through hammer and chisel.

Knowing it's gone, what's left of my life,

grateful for what i find, big and little.

Little is what i need, big would be stone -

and paying much for a hovel makes no sense,

so if for drawings that kill, i must atone

i'll bring money to those carving for cents.

To have - one gives; so i'll give what i want

bringing aid for carving comrades more gaunt.

jts 10 March 2014