Dreaded Ring
Oh, good blacksmith, forge me a ring,
That burns like sorrow, yet dares to sing.
Let molten stars drip from your hand,
And bind their fire to mortal sand.
Hammer the moon on your anvil of bone,
Temper it deep in a widow’s moan.
Quench it in blood from a lover’s vein,
So beauty and terror wear the same chain.
Let it gleam where no sun dares tread,
A promise wrought for both the dead.
Its shine shall charm, its curse shall cling,
Oh, good blacksmith, make me that ring.
When it’s worn, let hearts turn cold,
Let whispers follow, soft and bold.
Let dreams grow teeth, let shadows sing.
Oh, blacksmith, forge me the doom I bring.
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