The Soulsmith

Poverty of moisture

Often makes a root run deep

Limiting the sunlight

Surely makes short branches reach

Pruning spawns new growth each year

And seasons of drought

Make a wood grow stronger

The tightened grain weaves density

In each successive ring

Yet these are groomed through trial

Into more enduring things

Crowded forests makes growth straight

With fewer knots

Both born of challenging fate

Thus life is not for leisure

But the tempering of will

We’re held within the fire

Till our mettle is revealed

And when the Soulsmith’s hammer falls

Potential seems impinged

Yet passing through the cold of death

The spirit’s strength sets in