The smith labored
To create an object
Of impossible beauty.

Brow drenched, as
The crowd outside the forge
Laughed at his hubris.

Still, he lifted his arm,
Dropped and raised again,
Because he knew

While the impossible-impossible is folly,
The possible-impossible is just a chain of possibles
Welded together with the rhythm of the swing.

Both look the same
Under the hammer
With sweat in the eyes.

“Yet keep hammering,” he smiled,
“For there is no beauty
Without swing.”