smithing

In a workshop of metal and steel,
Where the hammer strikes with mighty zeal,
Sparks flying high, in the fire's grasp,
Crafting wonders, each blow's tight clasp.

With precision, the blacksmith stands,
In sweat and toil, his skilled hands,
He swings the hammer, loud and strong,
Creating beauty as he goes along.

The anvil sings a melodic tune,
As the hammer falls, the sparks loom,
Echoing rhythm, a symphony rare,
In this fiery forge, a creative affair.

Hammers smite the anvils. White-hot forge fires roar. Cool waters sizzle in anger whenever they come in contact with next glowing piece of great Ñoldorin craftsmanship. Both Elves present have always loved this music of creation far more than any song that is sung up in the halls of light and white marble.

The master of this workplace dunks his creation, the head of a pick-axe, into the water. He leaves it at the bottom of the bucket and doesn't take it out, even when the clouds of steam have subsided.

The other lowers her hammer. "What is it, Lord?"

Hello, old friend! I haven't written to you for some time, have I? How have you been? Sitting in my saddlebags, gathering dust, I see.

I know it's been far too long, and perhaps you'd like to hear what I've been up to. No, not yet. I have more pressing concerns. But you know how I can be; how I tend to ramble, covering ideas from here, there, and everywhere in between. Maybe you'll catch snatches as I go.