Arete

Bronze stays cold until fire finds it. Wood stays straight until the string draws its curve. You have feared the heat, resisted the bend. But metal that never melts never knows its edge. The bow that stays straight sends no arrow. The string that never trembles has no voice. The hammer falls. The string tightens. You do not break – you sing. The edge was always in the ore. The flight was always in the wood. You were always the voice, waiting for a fire you couldn't refuse.