The dust will gather on beaten forge
which crafted hardened steel.
Even hardest blade it gorged,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

Rooted deep in township’s yore
with a trade of kings and conquest.
Upon him once relied your lore,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

Leathered hands, up night and day
with visage of steel and focus.
Sparks will reign and fly and spray,
but all forget the Blacksmith.

But when your steed wears down his hooves
or your gate-posts starts to splinter,
you’ll be found needing hardened grooves;
you won’t forget the Blacksmith.

For it is he who works all day
And keep the townsfolk working.
If you need hardship kept at bay,
Don’t forget the Blacksmith.

Thine ever-faithful children born
Amidst thy mirthful knoll and lawn,
Rippling rivers, bubbling brook,
Known in tale and glee and book.

Made up of kith and kin alike,
Bridling horse or riding bike.
Be it by lake or under tree,
This people surely known to Thee.

Folk which temper from hewn rock,
Few have known more hardened stock,
Though brother-wars and streams of blood,
They fought gale and raging flood.

To whom owe we our yore so long?
Carved buildings and pretty song,
A stead of kings and noble lords,
Standing firm with swords and boards.

From glacial seas of Northern hearths,
To scorching plains and bloodied sparths.
Traditions range from meal and brick,
Tilling soil and healing sick.

Rich glories befall this folk,
Crafting metal, stone and yoke.
Humble start of pain and ill,
Overcome by might of will.

Where does it end, our precious land?
Warding foes from sea and sand.
Those granted gifts from bloodied mitts,
Forebears strengthened by their wits.

In many ways those heroes fell,
Sharpened axe or fired shell.
Unmatched fury in the soul,
Evelandish men with rage like coal.

Stand once again, O noble folk
Let not this foe thee string and choke.
Recall the glory of thy yore,
Richest lord or begging poor.

My Europa, ever-Queen,
Snowy peaks and hilltops green.
A thousand tongues which touch thine ears
Ripened over untold years.

So all tales come to be,
Yore’s unending symphony.
Taking in its last drawn breath,
No mighty cry... but silent death.

O humble woman,
A gift to behold.
Her caress a cure,
Her nature a smile,
While the world rages.

Often it's said
No love can be
Like that of a mother;
A timeless truth
For all to bear.

It is to you our Maker
gave life-bearing might.
Turn not your back
on your greatest gift
and suffer bitter loneliness.

O woman, sold a lie,
A venomous creed,
pitted against your true self:
A joy in cruelty,
A strength in adversity.

No, my lady, you are not God
You are not the light in darkness,
Nor an idol to bid and worship.
You are though something of outstanding importance:
A woman, a mother, the giver of Life.