She, born of the forge and cast from the pyre,
The fire of her birth soon vanished to iron,
Cold and lifeless, but still with a purpose
And then, from the worthless womb of coals
She falls.

Her sisters, countless in their tumble
Collide and stumble to the four corners
Of the earth.  Rapidly consumed
Exhumed for a thousand years
Or perhaps two…

Here she, in the wood of ...

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