I don’t have a clue as to what you mean, but you sure said it prettily. 8~)
Well, let’s take a walk over to the Smithy’s shop where the acrid smell of burning oil and the steamy sting of hot-dipped steel sweeps off the crucible’s Hellish gleam where the immutable meets the implacable on the hour and every night the work is put away — just to wait another day.
We shan’t linger long for the night’s still strong so come along as we watch the idle hands at play.
Look there, there is a tear and over there a mourning bear, they spin about, go in and out, their motions free and gay, the fabric rips, the players trip and the master leads the clowns; tumbling out we barely hear them shout and only the lifted winds reach our ears as they slowly drown in unheard tears.