Staged below the night sky, sooty and strong,
The smithy stands spewing smoke and heat.
Within, the blacksmith hard at work:
A craftsman, a symbol, a mere figure perhaps.
His hammer he wields, and they are one.
Sparks cast off by its strike against the sword
Mark their bond, the bridge to the smith’s soul,
Tugging his heart to the blade,
Sending off thunders, the music of steel.
The anvil awaits, a platform for greatness.
Plain and blank, yet strong and patient –
The heart of the forge, a craftstand for beauty,
Working wonders and winning wars,
An essence of kingdoms, a slate for glory.
The sword, sharp and shiny,
A worthy warrior’s weapon, a stuff for legends,
Its handle gilt, its blade moon-kissed,
Sits meekly upon the wooden bench.
The man beholds,
Overtaken by wonder, soothed by satisfaction.
The man,
A bard of metallic poetry,
Weaver of empires, a knight unknown,
Rests. Proud of the day’s work.
Staged below the night sky, sooty and strong,
The smithy stands spewing smoke and heat –
Amongst mead-halls and huts,
Castles and pavements,
The highways and the by-ways.
Within, the blacksmith rests.
Within, the fire of his dreams, the sparks of his life.
Galderbook 