A thousand words, never to be written,
too many moments to translate.
An unnecessary task, but a preferred one.
It should be easy, I am a wordsmith, as you said,
but my fire is merely embers,
my hammer, lost,
The billows need patching.
Discouraged, I sit by my dying fire,
a pile of horseshoe memories by my side.  
Broken plough hopes,
iron backed words.
All once glowing red,
now solidified in time,
by the cooling tears in a barrel.