The Silent Foundry

Iron cools in the darkening shed, where memories are hammered into shape, sparks fading against the damp earth, leaving only the weight of the work.

We speak in the language of rust, each orange flake a forgotten promise, peeling away from the solid core to dissolve in the steady rain.

The anvil waits for the morning light, a cold altar of endless becoming, where what is broken may be struck again, until the ringing ceases and the shape holds.