Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Apr 2019
The birthplace of weapons.
The backbone of wars.
No sound but the throes of steel.
In fires that burn, unending.

Shaped by the beating of the blacksmith.
Each stroke, manifesting his will.
To forge the weapon of prophecy;
The sword to lead us to victory.
Bathed in the blood of its enemies.
Written by
Fọlábòmí Àmọó  24/M
(24/M)   
Please log in to view and add comments on poems