Proof

In the quiet halls of the university’s old brick, Proof‑marks the sigh of a scholar’s heart,
a measured step through the steps of reason,
where every line on the board is a promise made in the language of theoremmarian tongue.

It whispers in colourless ink along parchment, a dialogue between logic and imagination, where the versed mind, a silent aide, defences himself with each certificate that theorems wear like polished medals.

Proof is a gatekeepers’ sigh at twilight, a promise that the world can be described not merely through conjecture but by solid stone,
by the small tyranny of checklists, the rigorous rhythm of the decisive “indeed.”

In the courts of mind and the theatres of the mind, the arguments rostrum rises, and the judges, with consent of conscience, pronounce: The truth stands, as there is no other.