Senn hoek

Questioning value is a hopeless endeavor,
for why would one doubt what has been established?

Materials arranged for human hands—
or so I have been told since long ago.

Long wooden beams intended for a home;
ends trimmed off to give a polished finish.

Into the dumpster they go, or up in flames;
unsuitable for the demands of industry.

Wood from every corner of the globe converges here,
lost to the standards of a human system.

Bound to the forms of pillars and roofs,
I strip away the scars left by the saw.

You will find no long wooden beams in this room;
I present a forest grown from an affinity.

Chains of scrap wood from that same bin—
an existence of uselessness, an existence of distinct character.