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 password’s spell.
From thine own face, does security sprout,
Lays previous flaws in doubt.
