The Forge of Hephaestus
Within the hollow mountain’s burning heart,
The limping god commands the roaring flame.
With practiced hand he plies his ancient art,
To forge the tools that give the heroes name.
The golden wire he spins like morning light,
To trap the gods in webs they cannot see;
He hammers shields to break the gloom of night,
And binds the thunder in a decree.
Though cast from high Olympus to the sea,
His scarred and soot-stained fingers never tire.
He crafts the legs that let the broken flee,
And steals the spirit from the solar fire.
For though the gods may mock his uneven stride,
In every blade, his silent strength will bide
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