Eight of Coins

You hammer the face of the metal to a dull shine. Whose face is it you are carving into the coin? You’ve never met him. You have copied it from a copy. How did he come to have his face repeated in gold? Oh what an honor! What is honor for him for you is a discipline. Face after face. The tools grow warm in your hands. Each strike of the hammer sends tremors back into your body. Rattled into numbness. Perhaps it is you who are made of gold. But who is there to carve you?