The Art of Archery.

The Art of Archery

Beneath the sky so broad and clear,
The archer stands, with neither fear,
A bow in hand, a quiver near,
Her heart attuned to what is dear.
The ancient craft, so calm, so still,
Demands her strength, her mind, her will.

The bow, a partner in her quest,
Curved and silent, it knows best
When tension rises in the air,
When arrows dance without a care.
She lifts it high, her posture straight,
A mark of poise, of focused fate.

The target waits, a distant dream,
A patch of hope, a fragile gleam,
And in her eyes, a quiet gleam,
As still as water in a stream.
Her muscles tense, her fingers trace
The string that waits in gentle grace.

Her fingers pull, the bowstring hums,
A whispered song that softly comes,
And with it, ancient echoes call
Of warriors brave, who stand tall.
The string tightens, a note of fire,
A song of breath, a soul’s desire.

She holds her breath, the world is mute,
Her pulse aligns with steady root,
Her thoughts dissolve, her spirit free,
She becomes the bow, the string, the tree.
The arrow knows the path it’ll take,
A line of truth, no chance to break.

Released, it soars, a streak of light,
A comet cutting through the night,
It flies with grace, with speed untold,
A thing of beauty to behold.
It slices through the winds that blow,
A journey only it could know.

And as it travels, swift and sure,
It dances through the air so pure,
The archer watches, still as stone,
Her silent joy remains her own.
For in the flight, she finds her peace,
A timeless moment, sweet release.

The arrow strikes, a final note,
A truth the archer’s heart has wrote.
The target’s hit, the silence breaks,
Yet in her soul, no storm awakes.
For archery is more than aim,
It’s not just about the game.

It’s balance found in moving still,
A steady heart, a tempered will.
It’s knowing when to let things go,
And trusting in the winds that blow.
Each shot she takes, a lesson learned,
Each miss, a chance to be discerned.

In every draw, a deeper thread,
In every arrow, thoughts unsaid.
The string, the bow, the archer's mind,
In perfect rhythm, intertwined.
They teach her patience, teach her grace,
To meet life’s trials face to face.

For archery’s an endless art,
A practice born within the heart.
It’s in the stillness of the bow,
The careful draw, the patient flow.
It’s in the flight, the strike, the fall,
A testament to giving all.

Each bow is drawn with firm resolve,
A subtle problem to evolve,
In every shot, a mystery,
That beckons forth with artistry.
The archer knows no final test,
But simply strives to do her best.

And in the field, beneath the sun,
The archer’s journey’s never done.
She trains her eye, her hand, her soul,
Each target brings her closer to the goal.
Not just a mark upon the board,
But inner peace, the true reward.

So she will practice, day by day,
Until the world fades far away,
Until her soul and bow are one,
In harmony, the task begun.
The target calls, but she knows well,
That victory is hard to tell.

It’s not the bullseye she must find,
But focus of a different kind.
To pull the bow, to let it fly,
To let each arrow kiss the sky.
And in that flight, to trust and know,
The art of archery will grow.

For in her craft, she finds the grace
To meet life’s challenges and face
The trials of the wind and time,
With each new arrow, every climb.
The archer’s soul, like bending wood,
Is shaped through practice, as it should.

And as she draws her final bow,
The quiet truth begins to show.
The target fades, the marks dissolve,
It’s not the end she must resolve.
The flight, the draw, the perfect flow,
In archery, this is what we know.

It’s in the patience, in the still,
The mindful act of pure free will.
The art of archery remains
A timeless dance, unbroken chains.
A journey where the soul is freed,
A testament to skill and creed.

So when you draw, remember this,
It’s not the target that you miss,
But
the moment when you lose your way,
Forget to feel, forget to play.
The archer’s heart is steady, free,
Her truest aim is harmony.