Trembling feet, like buzzing chords,
holding a balloon from shifting away.
They make their way in the stone walkway,
bending sideways with their clumsy grip,
and slipping in the greasy surface,
as they make their clanking sound.
This is the ground of your thousand falls,
the secret mother of your pride,
the nurturing defeat,
that guides the blown stature,
and fills the days with a poignant grin.
Through the smelting,
pure metal emerges,
hammered under the harshest blacksmith,
equipped with the wisdom,
of immeasurable time.
Every word comes delicate and frail,
a language beyond the common sentence,
it is encoded with a million passwords,
that nobody else can understand,
but her.
