Swords Are Tempered Slowly
— For My Friend Bonnie, with my prayers.
(Any blade can stab you
Cause damage, give pain,
But the one your trials makes you
Can withstand awful strain.)
The forge is a taste of Hell
Hot sparks, deep burn,
But that lurid cauldron’s metal
Is stable, solid, stern.
When returned to water
Sputtering, acrid steam,
Quickly calmed down to murmur –
Then the blast of Hell again.
The anvil tests it further
Crushing, claxon ring,
Beaten into shaped surrender –
Deadly hot and sharpening.
When the trials all give way
Great pressure, bright fire,
A sword is made by close of day:
Deadly tool but purposed higher.
All unneeded torn away,
Charred and wrenched from mire,
Torturous pain tempers a blade,
Gives a resolve, which we admire.
(Hot, bitter tears you’ve paid,
Suffered unfocusable ire… but,
Hurts and sorrows on us laid
Make us worthy to inspire.)