There's a hut beyond the village, 
it looks like a wizard's pride: 
All sooty, dark, with but one eye. 
What's happening inside?! 

Rattle, clink and roar can be heard, 
even a mine might thunder! 
Is there a sorcerer from stories 
stopping a giant's blunder? 

Don't you worry, just come close by, 
come in, it's not a trick. 
You'll see, the blacksmith is inside, 
my neighbor, dear old Nick. 

It's dark outside, a storm is close, 
clouds dream the lightning scars, 
and the smith's heavy hammer roars 
while forging golden stars. 

Now I know the great star maker— 
no more secrets for me: 
Every night, that dear old blacksmith 
lets shiny sparks spill free. 

Sometimes the sky is sad and black, 
like desert's blankness—it sweeps. 
I know why: It is just because 
the tired blacksmith sleeps. 

And there are times when the Moon glows 
through clouds in sleep bethrotten. 
That is the blacksmith Nick's fire 
that smolders—forgotten. 

Branko Ćopić
Translation: Dragana Konstantinović
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