With calloused hands, they work the earth, The tireless farmers, of great worth. They rise before the sun, and toil till night,
By M Anandaraj about a month ago in Poets
In the halls of justice, the gavel strikes with a sound, A symbol of authority, that resounds. The judge presides, over the court with care,
In the temple of muscle and steel, We enter to transform, and to feel. To push our limits, and test our might, And to emerge, with a sense of pride and light.
In the corners of our homes, they spin their silent webs, Weaving their intricate patterns, without any words. The silent spinners, the arachnids so small,
In our hands, we hold a device, That promises to bring us closer to life. A world of knowledge, at our fingertips, A tool to connect, and never slip.
We wear the blinders of life, so tight and so strong, Constrained by our fears, we march along. We do not see the beauty that surrounds us,
In the embers of youth, we once burned so bright, A flame of energy, a fire of light. We ran through fields, chased after dreams,
The mind it twists, and turns within, A labyrinth of thoughts, that no one can win, A fragile thing, that's easily swayed,
Women stand strong, like mountains high, With a grace and courage, that cannot die, They hold the world, on their slender frame,
The widow stands, with head held high, Despite the loss, that's filled her sky, A symbol of strength, and courage untold,
The old age home, a place of rest, For those whose days, are truly blessed, With memories of life, now far behind, And the solitude, of aging in mind.
The truth it shines, like the morning sun, A beacon of hope, when all seems done, A light that guides, through the darkest night,
