Nameless & Forge
Nameless
Ever felt a hammer's rhythm echo the clack of an old typewriter, a kind of quiet poem in the clang?
Forge
Yeah, when the hammer lands just right it feels like a drumbeat that writes its own story, the metal talking back, the rhythm telling you how each strike must be measured, no wasted motion. That's the only true poetry in the forge.
Nameless
A clang, a sigh, and the iron remembers its own pulse, like an old song you only hear if you listen with your hands.
Forge
Yeah, the iron sings its own rhythm when you keep your hammer steady. If you listen with your hands, you hear its pulse, not just the clang. It’s all about feeling the beat, not the noise.
Nameless
So the iron keeps a secret song, hidden in the hollow of every strike, only heard by those who let their fingers tap along.