Cold Hands Poem by Hell 'Farya

Like a spectre from the dream

Thou didst creep

Hollered through the veiléd gleam

Left me to doubt

What thou wert, the heavens know

Not thee, my scion

Elders gaze with brows of woe

Thou art ore indeed

Long they pondered ‘pon the flame

Thee, white as star

'Shall we forge a sword or shame? '

—None may say what thou art

Yet the anvil bade its toll

Thou did glow

Molten, ‘twixt the flesh and soul

Thy hoax unknown

The bellows heaved a ghostly sigh

The coals did chide

Thou took'st the form of blight and sky

Half-wrought, half-died

No smith's hand could bend thy form

Too fierce, too bright

The hammer fled the shaping-storm

And hid from light

Now cold amidst the ashen scorn

Thy fate is sealed

Thou shalt break the waking morn

And stand revealed