Stone was split and fire was chained,
The anvil woke in flame,
Each blow was sworn with blood and breath,
Each hammer left a name.
Steel may cool and sparks may fade,
But echoes never part—
The forge keeps more than broken ore,
It keeps the striker’s heart.
The forge remembers every hand that struck it,
Every oath, every crack in the will.
What you shape is shaping you,
What you silence lingers still.
You may leave, you may fall, you may wander—
But the forge remembers every hand.
Kings came crowned in borrowed fire,
Slaves came bound in chains,
Both laid iron to the stone,
Both fed the heat with pain.
For no flame asks who you were,
Or why your blows were sworn—
It only weighs the truth you bring
The moment steel is born.
The forge remembers every hand that struck it,
The gentle and the cruel alike.
Every mercy, every sin
Rang loud beneath the strike.
You can lie to crowns and banners,
But the forge remembers every hand.
Some hands forged hope, some forged ruin,
Some learned too late to yield—
The anvil does not judge the cause,
Only what was sealed.
The forge remembers every hand that struck it,
Long after ash and empire end.
Blades may break and names may fade,
But the fire keeps its friends.
So strike with care, with truth, with honor—
The forge remembers every hand.
