The Swordsmith Poem by Kwai Chee Low

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.