Echoing through the Dwarf’s cave, clanging and banging,
Silver and rare earth metals, with every strike, between hammer and anvil twanging,
The Smith worked away,
On heavy anvil, or tapping on fine bench, night and day,
Never seeing daylight from this cave, hid away in Myrkwood,
Methods hidden from prying eyes, many would steal them, if they could,
Caressing the ore, lutetium, silver, osmium, iridium,
Chanting now, almost in delirium,
A handful of this or that, some other, the lot,
Across the hearth, into melting pot,
At a temperature so high,
A human, if close, would surely die,
And when all was melted and smelted,
Into ingot, spelled upon and with half the Magick melded,
Then more Magick, into living spring water dipped,
To make sure all is right with it now, with tongue licked,
Hammered and shaped, then one more heating and lick,
Last shaping then, more heat and into dragons spittle dip,
Whereupon it turned black,
Then with Magick polishing cloth, chanting, rubbing, for many hours, forward and back
A sword then for a God fit!
If he can do a bargain…..If the God can afford it,
Volund the dwarf, Master Smith, laughed to himself,
And gently placed it next to a magnificent silver battle axe, on the rock shelf.