The Sword

A gleaming pristine sword

Hangs upon a wall,

But it wasn't always there,

No.  First it had to fall.

A fire red and hot

Scorched and burned the blade

As hammers hard and coarse

Crashed down to its dismay.

Left and right the endless bangs

Insistently pressed on,

But the blade held ever high and true,

Its iron will made strong.

And as it hangs upon the wall,

A pristine and gleaming shine

Runs fast and bright throughout the blade

That first it had to find.