Burning fire, then, in the cauldron, 

until out of the crucible, into the mold, 

outpouring of the spirit into a shape 

not unlike a Grail; made firm in the cold, 

you wait for the hands of your maker. 

How premature was that sigh of relief! 

I have known fire so many times 

that my fire markings defy belief. 

I have cried for mercy in that dark hour 

just before dawn, and been denied. 

Mercy's not a thing for grails. 

You'd shake if you were untried, 

says the sadistic Smith, and you'd snap. 

Better to snap now before the trial. 

And he sings as he pumps the bellows, 

and choking on my black bile 

I try to intone a descant. My high note 

rings out in darkness, my soul withstands, 

I curse the pain and protest 

as a Grail forms under the Goldsmith's hands.