The pristin silver left it's golden mold.
With properties of metal that came from old.
Part of mother earth who gave birth to her beauty.
With fashioned and smooth copper led.
The fire later her flame to bear.
And there music in the air.
The silversmith prodded and probed.
Pounded out love to be sold.
She would warm a young man's heart.
He would know passion from the start.
This is just fantasy that that he bought.
His happiness hinging on something he got.
Eventually looking at something wrought.
The silvercrest ring.
interesting bent we are on this morning ,nice poem