If you can stand straight when the hidden nets are cast,
and watch the structures where the silent truths are passed,
if you can keep your stride while history turns away,
yet feel the asymmetric chill at break of day,
then you have built the fortress that the empire made,
a stoic mind that walks unflinching through the shade.

But in the shadow of that heavy,stone-faced wall,
a whisper ripples through the chorus of them all.
"I can't hear you anymore,can't touch you anymore,"
it cries,
beneath the grand design where cold division lies.
The world demands a march,a steady,rigid pace,
but hearts are fracturing within this measured space.

To stand like iron while the earth begins to split,
to brave the thunderclap and make a home of it,
requires the willpower of Kipling's ancient code,
to carry empires down a long and dusty road.
Yet true endurance dances on a softer wind,
where broken melodies and silent grief are pinned.

For what is strength if we refuse to truly see
the net that holds the soul in forced asymmetry?
Be steel against the storm,a master of your fate,
but do not build a wall within your own front gate.
Only when iron learns to feel the spark awake,
are you a man,my son, who bends but will not break.