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.