Hands that toil : Hearts that ache

From fields of gold to the city's cold embrace, He came a farmer, with a weathered face. Dusty clothes, hands calloused and worn, Carrying the burden of harvest born. But steel and glass denied his rightful claim, A public servant, fuelled by disdain. "Unfit," they scoffed, for comfort and ride, Ignoring sweat beneath the sun's harsh tide. A captured scene, a viral shame, Sparked outrage, burning in social flame. "Is this the city, where clothes define worth? Does dignity vanish with the smell of earth?” The farmer stood, his spirit unbowed, Though pride was crushed and his heart clouded. He carries the weight of unseen scars, Of judgment swift, and judgment's harsh bars. A single act, a ripple of pain, Unveils the cracks where prejudice reigns. But from the depths, a message takes flight, For all who struggle, for justice and rights. Let not his sacrifice be in vain, Let empathy flow, like summer rain. May bridges be built, hearts open wide, Where all find welcome, with dignity as their guide.