I place my strength in fragile things,
not granite forts or finest tempered steel.
The works of man are transitory whims
that elements and age do both anneal.
The bloodied blades lie rusting in the grass
while saplings transmute into ancient wood,
and restless waves boil over empty sands
where once the towering harbour statue stood.
Strength for strength, the silvered cobweb wins,
and yet is rent by naught but gentle air,
or flutterings of frantic insect wings.
Such are our truths, and thus our worldly cares.
We stand amidst the ceaseless storms of time
and in that place can only hope to yield;
allowing all our troubles to flow past
we find ourselves reborn, renewed and healed.
I place my strength in fragile things,
my hopes held high when sense says they should fall.
Eternal forces hold the dream aloft,
invisible, inherent to us all.
Build high your lives and let them always grow
in fearless grace - as unique flakes of snow,
a sweeping arch in catenary might,
or circling stars strewn brightly 'cross the night.