Alas, my love of iron beauty.
My forge, allowing for my duty.
I feed you yet another coal,
In hopes that I achieve my goal.

I work long hours by your side,
Sacrificing time and pride.
So much coal, and metal bars,
So many have I burn-made scars.

I look upon your child, a blade,
Oft with vexation that it's made.
In all its time spent in our care,
I have this mis-made thing to share?

A pile begins, a pile grows;
My love, this world needs none of those:
Blades poor-made are wont to miss,
The edge too dull, unbalanced this.

Smelting's all that I can do;
You'd think I'd learn a trick or two
By now, for making things of worth,
With your help, dear, in this, their birth.

Yet all I have is metal grey,
To try for blades that sell. Someday.

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Aeguary, in the year 611 AF.