Pulled from the heart of the forge's fire,
the raw iron waits.
Incandesence placed on the anvil,
throwing circles of heat and light,
pushes back the nights deep dark.
Swiftly the hammer in the hand of the smith,
with a steady even measured blow,
a raw form begins to grow.
Bright white heat no hotter it can stand,
And a shower of sparks, smoke, sand,
three peices joined, now one.
The hot iron remembers the hammer blow
brief shadows of heat,
lasting ones left on the iron's face.
Into the forge with the now cool steel.
The sleeping fire comes back to life,
with every breath of the bellows,
smoke and steam gives way to flame,
bright clear fire heats the steel
till soft and pliant, it briefly moves like clay
between the hammer and the anvil,
a decision is made with every blow,
till once again it will not yield.
Then back to the forge,
a cycle repeated, many, many, many times.
and the smith a link, in an unbroken chain,
stretching deep into the past.