by the ancient anvils and hammers of yore, i conjure an ode to the noble blacksmiths, those private keepers of fire and metal. in their sacred forges, hidden from the prying eyes of the predissolutionary world, they toil, their skills rebuffing all but the most worthy. their craft, an art governed by criteria as timeless as the stars, demands nothing less than perfection. each strike upon the anvil, a chance to reset from zero, forging anew, in privacy's embrace, wonders that the ages shall never forget.