for LJ user occipitaldruid

Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, from The Village Blacksmith

If you would have your horse’s hooves re-shod
or plowshares rendered from your tools of war,
a barrel wrapped round with an iron rod
or brand new railing where your fence is poor

Just make your way out to the smithy’s door,
his crucible will change your scrap to gold;
there on the anvil that he stands before
the future’s formed by the great sledge he holds.

But you must work the bellows as he toils
and bring with you the raw goods to transform;
your eyes will burn and your tears turn to sweat

as the inferno brings your blood to boil.
And then, at last, your soul, in molten form
will break free of the mold of past regret.

04 DEC 2003

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