Strikes on the Anvil

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Strikes on the anvil fall in vain.

I beat, but my steel is far from flame.

My soul not aglow in orange and white,

But sheathed and broken, cold as night.


But in the fire the metal melds.

The sparks will fly until they die.

I shall be sharp and whole and bright,

Not sheathed and broken, cold as night.

Poems by Ezekiel SebentienWhere stories live. Discover now