My bronze heart beats with the rhythm of the foundry.
The memory of molten metal that caressed the dark corners of the mould with fiery fingers at my creation, flows now through pulsing veins.
I am perfect. The loving hands of skilled craftsmen that painstakingly polished every contour and ridge assured me of this.
I sit silently longing for admiration, inviting scrutiny.
Why then do you rush past me without so much as a glance?