WILLIAMSJI MAVELI WRITES

The mirror's a canvas, not a critic's gaze,
Where strength and beauty in a dance engage.
Each breath a brushstroke, muscles taking form,
A symphony of sweat in a rising storm.

The heart, the sculptor, with a steady beat,
Chisels away at weakness, makes retreat.
Lines of grace emerge, a sculpted frame,
A testament to will, a burning flame.

Not just for fleeting glances, this display,
But for the power that blooms within each day.
The beauty forged in fire, a warrior's art,
A healthy temple housing a noble heart.