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Click hereThe flames illuminate the forge. The air
Is thick with smoke and on the sooty wall
The grim light flickers. Firmly in my grip
The heavy hammer makes the room resound
As on the anvil molten iron’s wrought
Into a knife-blade - red-hot, wicked, soon
To be employed in drawing blood as hot
And red. The veins upon my wrist stand thick
And taut like tendons stretched - I will make haste:
A few more hours must suffice to make
A perfect dagger, polished, mean and sharp.
The sweat pours down my brow and mingles with
The tears of smoke, hot anger and dismay
At the cold curse the frowning fates incise
Upon the hilt. A few hours will suffice.
The smithy at his forge, making a weapon of mass destruction. It can kill many people, one at a time! For a man of peace, that might be painful, especially if it is required of him at the cost of something he holds dear, like his life, eh? I feel the emotions of the man in the work he does, in the iron he forges, in the weapon he creates.