Mokja Home

In Mokja home, 'neath the Earth,
Made treasures there, great of worth.
Where hammer rang on gnarled haft,
The delving folk sang their craft.

Red embers breathing silvered sparks,
Their anvils crashing in the dark,
And reflected there, their faces shone,
On burning, dripping, polished stone.

And twisted smoke ascended through,
Endless holes where the mountains grew.
Broiling veins of fiery air,
Coiling up from the High King’s chair.

Where up above the giants roamed,
‘til jealous grasped the Mokja home,
And cast that mount into the sea,
Where sank away their memory.

And still today, the merfolk swear,
When sea is calm around their lair,
You can hear the distant sound,
Of hammer clanging on the ocean ground.