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The Anvil
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The Anvil

Losing you is a thin stream of fear
trickling through my mind.
Will it cut a deep channel
draining all thoughts of your love?

Is my heart strong enough
to carry the burden and
the duties of today’s love with
the anxieties of tomorrow’s soul?

As the blacksmith hammers steel
into shapes of hand wrought beauty,
your white-hot love forges my heart
and coolly tempers with gentle affection.

This sweet summer of your love
couldn’t be nearly so pleasant,
had I not passed through the
lonely long winter of a heart deprived.

Men stumble over pebbles, not mountains.
I needed the furnace of your purity
burning the slag from my heart,
for without pressure there can be no diamonds.

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