Cold and unyielding
Metal can be warmed by another's touch.
It blossoms and molds itself to the heat of whatever's wielding
Till the mallet strikes it hard
Plowed roughly into the yard.
Red hot it scorches the ground in silent fury
Receiving hit after hit, staying there as though to beg for more
Touched starved, not knowing what good was supposed to bring
Metal doesn't know how to bend with guidance.
Metal doesn't know the difference between care and the careless
Metal only softens when warmth is forced onto it.
When does metal get to choose what it wants to be in the end?
A brilliant blade
That's what could have been constructed
Could still be constructed
If the right hands just picked it up
And then had the patience to mold it properly
For it doesn't need praise
Or really much coddling
The sword knows what it wants
It just needs to be sharpened
Because once the metal is shaped
There's a lifetime of service it delivers with simple purpose
But to keep a tool good, keep it in perfect condition
That's what takes patience and the care of responsible spirits.
