Riddle me this
I appear to be a most-fragile thing,
The coveted prize of any great king;
And still there’s little that can break me,
All that pressure but serves to make me;
The weight of the world upon me lies,
Buried in dark, far from men’s eyes,
My old self nothing but blackest coal,
Yet here to remain, be not the goal.
Worthy am I of the toil in finding,
The symbol of love made true and binding.
When I am pulled from the belly of night,
None can equal my reflection of light.
Steel bars I can cut,
Jail doors stay not shut,
For I was made,
To prove love’s greatest might.
What am I?
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