It rings, it rings:
the falling hammer
which thunders down
on her raw heart.

The stony stares
and whispered words
of ne’er do wells
and so-called saints;
it rings, it rings…

The bitter tears
and futile fights
of nights when no
was not enough;
it rings, it rings…

It rings, it rings:
the forging hammer
which transforms pain
and flesh alike.

The stinging strikes
and bruising blows
from fists and words,
from friends and foes;
it rings, it rings…

Slowly but sure
there’s gradual gain
toward long-sought strength,
at last achieved;
it rings, it rings…

It rings, it rings:
the battered hammer,
long-worn from years
of raining down
on burnished steel.