He stood before the blistering forge,
where coals burned blazing red-hot,
like molten lava the ore from the gorge.
Long he had ferreted and sought.
Sweating, oblivious to the stifling heat,
he struck his hammer again.
Sparks flew and flashed where steel and hammer met,
a rhythmic staccato refrain.
He obsessed from dawn until dusk,
to create the perfect sword.
Munching insipidly on a hot rusk,
in between prayers to the lord.
His wife left him to his obsession,
a lonely score year ago.
He needed no family or possession,
his dream alone set him aglow.
Ancient sword smiths who made wonderful sharp swords to use in wars were skilled ones and now the new generations are opted for other jobs. A good poem.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Actually a man is his own swordsmith to his life. his dream alone set him aglow - a wonderful line.
You're right, Cigeng. We all are 'smiths' in accordance to our dreams and aspirations.