In the workshop where fire is born,
Where the breath forges the gods,
Raw steel, without varnish or make-up,
Stands proud, strong and rare.
No ornament, no artifice,
Just the clear trace of vice
Flames, hands, beating time
On the metal with the fine veins.
Tables with well-tempered corners,
Chairs with sharp lines,
Everything speaks of naked strength
That no varnish has ever killed.
There is in this apparent cold
The warmth of an ardent gesture,
The dull song of the raging millstone,
The naked beauty of an old shore.
Every scratch is a memory,
A whisper, a fragment of history.
This furniture, austere on the surface,
Hides the soul of a world in place.
And under the rust that sometimes comes,
A life is born, an ancient bond:
Between man and the forged object,
A raw pact, without words exchanged.
