The Lives Between Sun And Soil Poem by ashok jadhav

The baker wakes before the dawn,
His hands still worn from yesterday;
The bread he shapes with steady care
Feeds mouths that never stop to pray.
The cobbler mends a tired shoe,
A stitch, a thread, a careful seam;
No song of fame, no golden prize,
Yet pride flows steady in his dream.
The children run through dusty lanes,
Their laughter rings like morning bells;
They chase the sun, the stray dog's bark,
And fill the air with simple spells.
The farmer bends beneath the sun,
His brow a map of toil and rain;
He knows the pulse of soil and seed,
The gift and grief of harvest gain.
The washer hums beside the stream,
Her clothes like flags upon the line;
Each motion plain, yet full of life,
A quiet ritual, slow, divine.
No royal halls, no crowded stage,
Could teach the heart what here is taught;
In common hands and daily deeds,
The truest wealth is gently wrought.
So walk the streets and fields with care,
Observe the lives that brush your own;
For in the hum of ordinary hearts,
The soul of life is fully shown.