Blacksmiths Turmoil.
Up before the sunlight, out to the shed,
furnace coals are bellowing a bright red,
tightening the hat band, along with the sash,
to keep ones-self from being covered in ash.
Grabbed up the instrument, an anvil to chime,
reached for a rod of iron one final time.
The tools you know, your works-we know,
so now we begin stoking the fires below.
Hard days of sweat, all the days you've toiled.
You reap what you sow, also what you've spoiled.
Your actions are hardened, when chilled with ice,
measure out the rod carefully, be concise.
Careful in what you've worked;
for you get what you've lacked,
when you see these things ahead of time,
they've become a statement of fact.
Past-tense is difficult to believe,
when its done right,
rusty metal needs to be fired,
for it to shine bright.
Wood burns up in the furnace.
Straw's a puff of smoke.
Gold becomes purer and purer;
silver, a pliable yoke.
Gemstones splinter and crack
still, they hold their shape,
the black smiths work is underway.
Who will escape?
A.o.R.
