The Wheel That Slices Gold

Oh, the wheel, how it turns!
Round and round in the gold,
with a block in its jaws
and a secret to hold.

Up high sits the knife
in its shimmering seat,
and it waits for the spin
that will make the slice neat.

A ribbon comes off,
oh so thin,
oh so fine,
each section a sliver,
each sliver a sign.

The cells gather pink
and they gather in blue,
in tiles a slow jeweler
took ages to glue.

And over it all glows
a city of light,
with domes and with stars
in a gold-spun night.

So crank the old handwheel
and trust in your hand,
for the truth's in the tissue,
thin-sliced on demand.