This shining mirror, black as oil,
Made from all the sweat and toil,
Of a man in a hollow so dingy and gross.
Working in sorrow and loss.

Oh how he weeps and creates beautiful things!
But his heart hurts when his hammer pings.
The sadness reflects in his gorgeous art,
But it keeps splitting his fragmented heart.

Yet he keeps working, even though he cries
Never ceasing, until he dies.
Some say his ghost still works,
And through the obsidian mirror he lurks...