Bronze

Under a tired sun,
 I forge time into a tamer wound.
 Bronze gleams — 
 not gold, not dust,
 but memory that chooses to endure.

Born of fire and patience,
 a mixture of stubbornness and small prayers.
 My hands tremble,
 yet the form stays faithful,
 holding the marks of the world’s blows.

Bronze does not shout.
 It learns silence,
 accepts rust as the language of age,
 and its shine as a promise
 that even falling can be beautiful.

If one day I break,
 let me be like bronze:
 strong enough to crack,
 honest enough to still stand,
 warm enough to be remembered.