It started as nothing more than a mass
A form, ambiguous and meaningless
In a pile with others of its kind
Waiting its turn without a sound
When he selected this form
He stared at it for a while with intent
Before placing it within the fire
Within the inferno this form took life
Awakening and glowing a vibrant orange
He readied his anvil and his hammer
And pulled this form from the fire
Without wasting a second he began
Allowing not a moment of this gift
To escape from the form he selected
He set the form in its proper position
And brought his hammer down once
Striking it upon the anvil, and then again
Each strike was delivered with purpose
With care and with incredible precision
He followed no mold nor set example
But with each swing he poured himself
His love, his anger, his laughter, his misery
All of these things he gave to the form
Until this form finally gave way to shape
And when its trial by fire had been completed
This shape was given to the water to heal
Completing its structure and sealing it
This shape was unique in its singularity
Born from the fire and forged in love
Given a shape to do with as it pleased
Until to the fire, one day, it shall return