Fragment and karate

In the dojo's embrace, silence settles,  
a canvas of weathered mats—  
echoes brought forth by shuffling feet.  

Fragment of a memory:  
the first crack of binding wood,  
splintering beneath unsteady palms—  
persistence etched into every bruise.

Karate’s discipline flows like breath;   
each kata a whisper, each stance a prayer.  
Fingers grasp ghosts of ancestors’ power,    
while fists carve paths through air, raw and visceral.

Lost in repetition’s dance —   
swift kicks painting shadows on walls that listen.    
A universe unfolds with each strike;   
a harmony found in chaos.

Yet here lies the beauty in breaking:   
scattered shards gleam under flickering lights—   
pieces once whole now sharp reminders  
of limitlessness tucked within fragility.  

We learn not only to defend but to fall;  
to rise again from fragments like lotus blooms emerging from mud—    
resilient hearts shaped by every fracture endured.   

In twilight moments after combat and calm,
the spirit finds peace amidst scattered remnants—     
for even broken forms can teach us flies' flight:   

tender strength forged together,
fragments made radiant when pieced anew—
an elegy carried forward,
in every strike and step taken upon this sacred ground.