The Anvil's Song
In caverns deep where shadows reign,
Iron slumbers in earthen vein,
Awaiting touch of human hand,
To wake and shape at their command.
The miners come with lamp and pick,
Through winding tunnels, air grown thick,
They chip away at ancient stone,
To free the ore from rocky home.
Emerged from darkness into light,
The iron meets a fiercer sight,
The smelter's maw, a blazing hell,
Where ore and flame together dwell.
With limestone, coke, the furnace fed,
The metal flows, a molten red,
Transformed by fire's primal might,
From earthy brown to liquid bright.
As dawn breaks o'er the misty hill,
The smith awakens with a will,
Callused hands and arms of steel,
Prepared to make the iron yield.
The forge awaits, a sleeping drake,
Its belly filled with coals to wake,
With bellows' breath, the beast alive,
The day's first labors now arrive.
Iron glows with inner fire,
Plucked from flames with tongs' desire,
The hammer rises, poised in air,
A moment's pause, a silent prayer.
Then down it falls with thunderous ring,
The anvil's voice begins to sing,
Sparks fly like stars in newborn sky,
As smith and metal unify.
Strike by strike, the metal bends,
Its form reshaped as smith intends,
Folded, twisted, stretched, and turned,
Secrets of the craft hard-earned.
The symphony of hammer's song,
Echoes through the day so long,
A rhythm ancient as the hills,
The smith with purpose now fulfills.
Water hisses, steam ascends,
As heated metal quickly cools,
Tempered strength the process lends,
Guided by the master's tools.
From shapeless lump to blade so keen,
Or plow to furrow fields so green,
The iron takes on countless forms,
As smith through skill its shape transforms.
Hours pass in sweating toil,
Muscles ache and bruises bloom,
Yet in this heat and ceaseless moil,
Wonders from the anvil loom.
A sword to guard the kingdom's gate,
A bell to toll the village time,
A lock to seal a lover's fate,
A chain to make the bells to chime.
The smith stands back, eyes critical,
Surveying work with practiced gaze,
Each curve and edge so vital,
Perfection sought through smoky haze.
For in this craft of fire and steel,
There's little room for error's cost,
Each piece must serve its purpose real,
Or else a day of work is lost.
As evening shadows longer grow,
The forge's fire begins to wane,
The smith, with movements sure but slow,
Prepares to rest his weary frame.
But pride swells in his chest so broad,
For from his hands and creative mind,
New things of beauty now abroad,
To serve the needs of humankind.
The anvil cools, its song now still,
The hammer rests upon the bench,
Tomorrow brings another hill,
Of metal forms to shape and clench.
For in this ancient, timeless art,
Where fire and iron intertwine,
The smith pours forth his very heart,
To forge a legacy divine.
And so the cycle never ends,
From earth to flame to shaping blows,
Each piece a story comprehends,
Of human will that ever grows.
In every nail and blade and ring,
In tools that build our world anew,
The anvil's song will always sing,
Of iron's strength and smith's virtue.