The Work Of Hands Poem by ashok jadhav

Before the sun has touched the sky,
The worker rises, slow but sure;
With calloused hands and steady heart,
He greets the day, both plain and pure.
The plough cuts deep, the hammer falls,
The sweat runs down like silver streams;
Yet every motion, small and plain,
Holds life, and dignity, and dreams.
The weaver bends above his loom,
The threads run taut beneath his care;
Each pattern born of patient skill,
Each color shining in the air.
The carpenter shapes simple wood,
The potter molds the yielding clay;
No riches mark the work he gives,
Yet meaning fills each humble day.
When evening comes with softened light,
He rests, content with what he's done;
The labor plain, the toil sincere,
Has shaped the world, though no crown won.
For simple hands and honest hearts
Are stronger than the gilded hall;
The world is built on humble work,
And honor lives in toil of all.