A field of wildflowers once made a promise to a suit of armor.
“If you lie here long enough,” the flowers said, “you will remember you were metal wrapped around a heartbeat, not the other way around”.
So the knight came alone at dusk, still wearing the weight of every silent battle.
No banners, no audience, only the hush of grass and the soft riot of color pressing against cold steel.
The sky could not tell if it was cradling a soldier or a sonnet.
The wind could not decide whether to sharpen itself or sing.
Some lives are lived as a question that never introduces itself.
Who will notice the sword that smells faintly of rain, or the armor that collects petals like secrets ?
To most eyes, it is only a body at rest.
To a few, it is the rarest alchemy: a mind built for war, quietly hiding a cathedral of unwritten poems.
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