The Blacksmith Shop
The blacksmith shop stands empty now, The forge is cold, the fire's out. The tools are still, the anvil's cold, No sound of hammer, no ringing shout.
The bellows hang, the tongs are still, The ashes lay in piles of grey. The smell of smoke, the heat of flame, Are but memories, fades away.
The coals once glowed, the metal sang, As the blacksmith worked his craft. Shaping iron, making tools, His skill and strength, a work of art.
But time has passed, and the shop's been closed, The smith is gone, the door is locked. The windows boarded, the shop is silent, The story's told, but the memories mock.
But in the night, when the wind is still, When the moon is full and the stars are bright, You can hear the ghostly hammer ring, And see the forge's ghostly light.
The blacksmith shop, a place of work, Now stands as a relic of the past. But in the memories it lives on, A legacy that forever will last.