In a village, nestled by the hill,
Stood a forge, silent and still.
An old blacksmith, with hands of iron,
Yearned for days, long gone by, a fire.
Once a warrior, brave and bold,
In tales of yore, his stories told.
Monsters fell beneath his might,
In the dance of battle, a fearsome sight.
His hammer now beats a different song,
On anvils cold, where sparks belong.
But in his heart, a battle rages on,
For days of youth, forever gone.
Eyes that once held a fearsome glaze,
Now watch the fire, lost in haze.
Memories of glory, of friends so dear,
In the quiet forge, he sheds a tear.
“Would I be young,” he softly sighs,
“To once again, see through those eyes.
To feel my sword, steady and true,
Slaying beasts, as I once used to do.”
The steel he bends, with age-old skill,
But no steel can bend to his will.
The yearning for a past so bright,
In the twilight forge, his eternal fight.
Yet, in each blade, his soul still sings,
Of mighty deeds, and dragon wings.
For in his craft, the warrior lives,
In every sword, his spirit gives.
An old blacksmith, in a world so vast,
His glory days, shadows cast.
But through the flames, his legend stays,
In the heart of steel, his memory plays.
Poetry of the Soul 