Iron: Earth's Vein, Mankind's Spine

In womb of Earth, in silence slept,
A metal dark, the ages kept.
No gold’s allure, nor silver’s gleam,
Yet Iron woke the human dream.

Not soft as song, nor pure as prayer,
But forged in flame and tempered air.
It bore the blade, it crowned the kings,
It formed the heart of mightier things.

From plow to sword, from chain to wheel,
In Iron’s hands, the fates would kneel.
Empires rose on Iron’s breath,
And fell beneath its song of death.

The Roman roads, the Spartan spear,
The knightly helm, the engineer—
Each bore the soul of Earth’s dark bone,
A gift no age could claim alone.

The chariots that Mahabharata roared,
The Gupta pillars, strength outpoured.
The Wootz steel, a legend’s might,
That armed the brave in ancient fight.

The iron fist of Mauryan might,
That carved an empire, day and night.
The Wootz so keen, a deadly art,
That played a warrior’s vital part.

The blacksmith’s anvil cracked like thunder,
As sparks of war split peace asunder.
Yet Iron turned, in time, to peace—
A rail, a bridge, machine release.

It sang through smoke in factory halls,
It bore the weight of modern sprawls.
From engines vast to soaring steel,
It bent to serve the human will.

From lattice strong, a structure deep,
Where atoms bond and secrets sleep.
A metal forged in stellar fire,
With properties that still inspire.

Its stubborn heart resists the strain,
Yet bends to shape, again, again.
A paradox of strength and grace,
That underpins both time and space.

For you were there when myth was made,
When cities rose, when debts were paid.
More than ore — a timeless thread,
That stitched the living and the dead.

Not gold, not gem, not whispered lore,
But Iron walked through every war.
It holds the Earth, it built the sky—
The silent god we deify.

From chains that bound the human will,
To tools that helped the fields to till.
The selfsame Iron, stark and grim,
Held captive hope, or freed a limb.

In rust it sleeps, in stars it lives,
A metal that forgets, forgives.
No poet dared your name to raise,
But now, Oh, Iron, take your praise.

So let the bards now lift their lyre,
To sing not love, but forge and fire.
For Iron reigns where others dim—
The bloodless god, the unseen hymn.

So praise the dust no crown has kissed,
The blade, the beam, the alchemist.
Though nameless in the songs of men,
Iron shall rise — and reign again.