The Metallurgist

They had wrought a woman out of metal,

To be forged from only the purest gold.

As the molten form began to settle,

An impure alloy had fractured the mold.

Faint as the chain cast out by Hephaestus,

Appraisal found the lacking refinement.

Gold without beauty has lost impetus;

Tarnished bronze, cast aside the woman went.

She found herself rare as buried treasure,

With amber ringlets crowned upon her head.

Entangled copper shielded her pleasure;

She had been buried, but she was not dead.

A malleable anvil she became,

Bending only to her own tempered flame.