He stands—a statue scorched in flame,
His silence louder than acclaim.
One arm raised high, the battle done,
The crowd forgets there was another one.
His chest—two slabs of tempered steel,
His breath still thick with battle's feel.
Each vein a thread the Fates have writ,
Each limb a verdict, hewn and won.
His singlet clings with sacred pride,
A second skin the gods provide.
Beneath it hangs a solemn weight—
The mark of man, the drag of fate.
His loins, half-veiled, in stillness rest,
No shame within that swelling crest.
Not lewd, but law—a sign, a seal,
Of strength that mustn’t ever kneel.
His curls–a crown the sun ignites.
His stare is still, beyond delights.
He does not speak. He does not break.
He is the mountain—not the quake.
