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Heart of Stone

He built his dreams with fire and steel,   Through sweat and pain, through grit and will.   His path was carved with silent nights,   A war he waged beyond the sights.   But love, so sweet, so soft, so near,   Whispered dreams into his ear.   A choice was placed upon his chest—   His passion’s flame, or love’s request.   He turned away from burning light,   Held her close, embraced the night.   Yet soon he found, to his dismay,   Both love and purpose slipped away.   For goals demand a heart of stone,   And love still longs to call its own.   To chase one means to lose the fight,   To hold both tight is rarest might.   So walk the road with eyes aware,   Choose with wisdom, choose with care.   For once you drop what makes you whole,   You lose the fire—and lose your soul.
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Mailu

Mailu, with hands that longed for clay,
Stuck in an office, day by day.
Numbers danced, a foreign tongue,
His spirit dimmed, his passion sung
A silent song, a muffled plea,
To craft, to mold, to truly be.

Spreadsheets stretched, a barren field,
Where dreams of form refused to yield.
The clock ticked slow, a taunting beat,
Each hour stolen, incomplete.
His heart, a sculptor's yearning hand,
Inexpertly grasped a paper band.

One night, a whisper, soft and clear,
"What stirs within, year after year?"
He looked within, a truth unfurled,
No love for figures, but a world
Of shapes and textures, waiting there,
A sculptor's soul, a caged despair.

A spark ignited, burning bright,
He'd chase his passion, take flight.
The office walls, they held him no more,
His restless hands would soon explore
The yielding clay, the whispered line,
A chance to make his spirit shine.

The road ahead, uncertain, long,
But Mailu's heart, at last, felt strong.
For love's the fire that makes us great,
And passion's flame will illuminate
The path to brilliance, clear and true,
A sculptor born, finally anew.

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