Labourer's Hand

Calloused canvas, etched with sun and rain, A map of toil, where muscles speak their pain. No crown adorns it, nor scepter's gilded shine, But in its grip, a legacy entwines. Not pharaohs' monuments, nor empires vast, But fields that nourish, homes that rise at last. Bricks laid true, with sweat for mortar's hold, A city's pulse, in stories yet untold. No artist's brush, nor poet's lyric grace, But hammers tapping, leaving their own trace. Steel forged and shaped, with fire's ardent kiss, A symphony of sparks, where dreams don't miss. Not ruler's scepter, nor scholar's quill, But thread spun fine, with patient, practiced skill. Garments woven, warmth against the cold, A mother's love, in stitches neatly told. No warrior's blade, nor priest's anointed hand, But seeds that sprout, at farmer's wise command. Land nurtured, yielding life anew, A cycle's dance, beneath a sky so blue. No sculptor's chisel, nor architect's grand plan, But tools that mend, held by a steady hand. Machines repaired, with rhythmic, whirring hum, A world kept turning, never truly numb. Not surgeon's scalpel, nor teacher's guiding pen, But streets swept clean, where children play again. Invisible threads, that bind a community, A hand unseen, yet vital, you can see. So raise your gaze, beyond the gilded frame, To hands that build, the ones without a name. For in their toil, a nation's spirit thrives, A tapestry of labour, where humanity survives.