The blacksmith's house crouches against the city wall,
balls of smoke billow out of the chimney.
The bellows groan and the fire hisses,
the old blacksmith stands, surrounded by flames and smoke.

His hand holds the iron and does not let go,
he forces it into shape and hums and speaks,
half spell and poem, half magic, a prayer,
that works secrets and yet no one understands.

As the hammer swings with the firm strength of his fist
and the anvil trembles and rings like a bell,
the defiant iron blazes with embers,
its metallic blood sprays in sparks.

As the work hisses in the cooling water bath,
the embers smolder, the rage extinguishes,
goblin eyes peer from the ceiling soot
and blink a furtive greeting at the master.

They all marvel at the old man's strength,
which, with the restraint of will, creates mighty things. Then the workshop rests, shrouded in the evening,
crouched against the old city wall.

By E.K. Plachner

Stream sketch by the talented