LuxObscura
Titanium Teammate
There was a place hidden in time,
where heat does not warm but forge,
where cold does not cool but harden,
where time does not pass nor start.
Repeated loud hammering, ringing echoes strike the anvil.
Hot fire, oppressive heat, loud flames that hiss.
Between hammer and anvil, glowing steel.
Turned, folded, hardened, shaped by will.
Countless sweat beads fall to the ground,
as the the hammers they are striking like thunder.
They are falling in rhythms, almost like mantra.
Between ringing and dulls, even a poet recognizes a rhythm, like aura in chakra.
Eternal fire that covers even the deepest, iciest, coldest, darkest winter.
And everything has been kept maintained by a hammer.
But also with the engulfing fire, as otherwise it would be devoured by darker.
Acting like a light source, as a lighter.
Now changing the perspective, from the surrounding to the voice of the smith.
I have been striking, again and again, the hammer falls like thunder.
Each blow a pulse that shakes the very bones, almost like I am trying to sunder.
And the pain is the hammer and sorrow the fire.
I have been hammering an eternity, but also kept from stopping.
Without continuing everything would turn to ice and stop its continuing.
Every hit feels heavier, drained no power.
They keep me running, the heat of the fire, the cold of winter, the steel bars between my hammer.
The bars are hissing, like no soul is missing.
And every hit forms its being.
Without this, there would be no livings.
And now shifting the perspectives from the world, to the smith, to the soul of the steel.
I was once formless, untouched, unnamed,
but the fire and hammer taught me through pain.
Folded, broken, rejoined, reforged,
but was never destroyed.
And while I was folded everything was unfolded.
What seems like weakening was actually reinforcement.
The fire scorched away what was weakness.
The cold showed me endurement.
The hammer gave me the rhythm, an intellect.
where heat does not warm but forge,
where cold does not cool but harden,
where time does not pass nor start.
Repeated loud hammering, ringing echoes strike the anvil.
Hot fire, oppressive heat, loud flames that hiss.
Between hammer and anvil, glowing steel.
Turned, folded, hardened, shaped by will.
Countless sweat beads fall to the ground,
as the the hammers they are striking like thunder.
They are falling in rhythms, almost like mantra.
Between ringing and dulls, even a poet recognizes a rhythm, like aura in chakra.
Eternal fire that covers even the deepest, iciest, coldest, darkest winter.
And everything has been kept maintained by a hammer.
But also with the engulfing fire, as otherwise it would be devoured by darker.
Acting like a light source, as a lighter.
Now changing the perspective, from the surrounding to the voice of the smith.
I have been striking, again and again, the hammer falls like thunder.
Each blow a pulse that shakes the very bones, almost like I am trying to sunder.
And the pain is the hammer and sorrow the fire.
I have been hammering an eternity, but also kept from stopping.
Without continuing everything would turn to ice and stop its continuing.
Every hit feels heavier, drained no power.
They keep me running, the heat of the fire, the cold of winter, the steel bars between my hammer.
The bars are hissing, like no soul is missing.
And every hit forms its being.
Without this, there would be no livings.
And now shifting the perspectives from the world, to the smith, to the soul of the steel.
I was once formless, untouched, unnamed,
but the fire and hammer taught me through pain.
Folded, broken, rejoined, reforged,
but was never destroyed.
And while I was folded everything was unfolded.
What seems like weakening was actually reinforcement.
The fire scorched away what was weakness.
The cold showed me endurement.
The hammer gave me the rhythm, an intellect.
