around the studio, words flutter like moths,
a confusion of paper wings dancing in the warm air.
the wordsmith ignores them;
his task is with the lost words,
not those that are found.
he lifts his horned head and smiles at the sky,
reaching upwards for a filigree net,
clasping it in his clawed hand.
the wordsmith casts it through the window
and into the air,
the fragile silver twisting in a breeze.
as it swings,
hanging from a hook,
a myriad of thoughts float into it,
enmeshed in the gleaming metal.
the wordsmith nods, a solemn look in his eyes.
he lifts one hand and pulls the net back
through the window,
and delicately scoops out the colours.
they flutter and are still,
as he walks to the brazier hanging from the high ceiling.
the wordsmith gently pours the thoughts into a crucible,
their colours mixing and swirling,
as he places burning juniper logs into the brazier.
he lifts the crucible,
setting it above the fire,
as he takes a crystal vial of liquid imagination,
letting a few drops fall into the bubbling thoughts.
the wordsmith swills the crucible with a practiced ease
then lifts it away from the flames,
spilling its contents onto a flat, engraved surface.
the wordsmith picks up a vast, ornate hammer
and brings it down onto the thoughts,
over and over again.
at last, he is satisfied,
and examines the thoughts,
which have been cast into bright, shimmering runes.
as the wordsmith watches,
the runes peel away from the surface
and lift tentatively into the warm air.
he smiles tenderly and reaches out a claw,
runes settling onto it like butterflies.
the wordsmith blows cool air over them,
and they soar around his head in soundless joy.
the wordsmith stands,
a towering, imposing figure in a dark studio,
surrounded by gleaming letters that spiral and swim around his horns.
tenderly,
the wordsmith smiles.
