Anvil's Song

In a forge by the moon's silver glow,
Where the anvil hums secrets we don't know,
Lives a blacksmith with hands like ancient oak,
His hammer strikes fire, and the sparks evoke.

Oh, the anvil sings, its rhythm unbound,
Forging dreams into steel, magic all around.
The blacksmith's sweat mingles with stardust,
As he shapes destiny with each fiery thrust.

His anvil, a relic from forgotten lore,
Whispers tales of battles, love, and more.
It remembers the clang of swords and shields,
And the echo of hearts on distant fields.

When the moon wanes low, and the night is still,
The blacksmith weaves spells with iron and will.
He hammers out courage, for heroes to wield,
And forlorn lovers' promises, forever sealed.

Oh, the anvil sings, its rhythm unbound,
Forging dreams into steel, magic all around.
The blacksmith's sweat mingles with stardust,
As he shapes destiny with each fiery thrust.

Legends say his anvil was forged by gods,
From meteorites fallen on ancient sods.
It absorbs moonlight, whispers of the past,
A conduit for enchantments that forever last.

So, raise your tankard high, toast to the smith,
Whose anvil weaves fate, both gentle and swift.
May his hammer strike true, and his fire burn bright,
In the heart of the forge, where dreams take flight.

The Anvil's Song, a ballad of magic and might,
Where the blacksmith's hands dance in the night.
May his anvil's echo reach across the land,
Guiding lost souls home, with a fiery brand.
