Galona's heart was made of glass,
A crystal fine, a fragile cast.
She filled it up with wine so old,
And placed it on a tray of gold.
Before Teerath, she set it down,
A gleam that in its glow was found.
He reached to touch the glass, so light,
Enchanted by its glittered sight.
But Teerath, with a careless hand,
Held beauty he could not withstand.
To test its strength, he cast her low,
And watched her shatter, soft as snow.
Was it his fault? Perhaps not so—
All beauty's meant to break and go.
Galona’s fault, her tender grace,
For trusting one who knew no place.
How can a blacksmith understand
The worth of diamonds in the sand?
For gems are kept in velvet folds,
Not placed in hands that bruise and mold.
Her heart, so delicate and rare,
A treasure only few should bear.
For some things precious, pure as air,
Are not for all, but handled with care.
