Anvil

In the smoky hush of the old forge,
A silent anvil waits, its face of steel,
A steadfast heart where hammer blows converge,
Each clang a echo of the craftsman’s zeal.

Its blackened back bears scars of countless fires,
Yet stands unbowed beneath the furnace glare—
A mound of iron, patient, never tires,
Shaping the dreams that glow beyond compare.

When sparks take flight like fireflies at dusk,
The anvil sings in low, resonant tone,
A quiet promise that, through toil and husk,
What’s forged will hold when all else is overthrown.

So here’s to the anvil, humble, grim, and grand—
The unsung pillar of the smith’s firm hand.