A ball of iron, so fierce and bold,
Lunges at hamlets old.
Like a dog set upon its kin,
Leaves naught but wreckage within.

Empty streets, shuttered doors,
As quiet as a rabbit's chores.
Yet within whispers a plan,
To bloom anew under man's hand.

"Passkeys," cries the snail in shell,
Hides not in passwords spell.
From thine own face, does security sprout,
Lays previous flaws in doubt.

by Guillemette de Ventadour

a centaur