A dull Klang rings out like the shouts of a person calling for the halt of another.

The will of the outsider has been enforced by your hand.
Stout you stand like an army which never yields or even lets an enemy rise.
The only force to which you yield being that to which you never let yourself be exposed.
Mighty anvil purveyor of power,

you move not and falter never.
Varied in shape but never in strength
You always remain

Steel crumples at your will
Hammers halt without question
Your only reply to their wishes a sharp klang to say “I still stand”
Your smooth surface with sharp edges and sweeping curves
The form around which others shape themselves and their lives,
You weather when all else rots.
Your shiny finish only tarnishes while metals crumble of rust and slag.
You, mighty anvil, are the true strength on which civilization was built,
And yet you sit in the shop of those whom are deemed lowly craftsman.
Not on the pedestal which you deserve.