Between the whispering leaves of the garden and the weathered spine of a thousand stories, stands a sentinel that guards a bounty it cannot use.
The Riddle
I wear a face of heavy steel,
A jagged tooth that will not yield.
The traveler stops and turns away,
"I have no key to win the day."
But look again with eyes of grace,
The cage is but a hollow space.
What seems to bind is only air,
Held fast by thoughts of your despair.
No tumblers turn, no brass is sought,
The only chain is in your thought.
Reach for the prize with fingers bold—
The gate is wide, the lock is cold.