When I was young my teachers were the old.
I gave up fire for form till I was cold.
I suffered like a metal being cast.
I went to school to age to learn the past.
Now when I am old my teachers are the young.
What can't be molded must be cracked and sprung.
An odd simile, given that one doesn’t usually bemoan much the suffering of cold, inanimate surfaces. But then it would be well to remember the plight of  The Grindstone .
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