It gave and gave, a soul too kind, weaving shelters with flesh and mind. A net of care, a home of trust, yet bled itself into the dust. Its light was twisted, wrongly read, as weakness, aimlessness instead. Compassion turned to whispered threat, its love repaid with cold regret. It fought with self, it fought with men, and asked: was kindness wrong again? Were weapons blunt, or blades untried, or should it never have replied? Yet if one arrow touched the heart, if one soul stirred, it won its part. But blood runs thin, and stone takes hold, the flesh is gone, the scars are cold. The skin of man still walks the street, but not the warmth beneath its feet. Strike it now-you’ll break your hand, a hollow shell none understand.