The Cobbler's Creed

 

He sits beside the roadside bare,
A patch of dust, a breath of air.
No studio walls, no softened chair—
Just quiet craft and sunlit glare.

With calloused hands and eyes grown wise,
He watches life in hurried guise.
Torn soles, forgotten, broken, bare,
He lifts with gentle, patient care.

From dawn's first hint till shadows creep,
He mends the secrets shoes can keep.
A worn-out sandal, broken strap,
He coaxes life back to its trap.
The hammer's tap, the needle's glide,
A rhythm born of quiet pride.

His earnings thin, a fleeting stream,
A fragile balance, a distant dream.
For rice, for rent, for children’s books,
He stretches time in hidden nooks.

Each stitch he sets, a silent vow,
To change their fate, if not just now.
He dreams beyond the leather’s dust—
A life more fair, a world more just.

The sun returns, the city stirs,
The cobbler’s world, unchanged, occurs.
His work begins where journeys end,
A guardian of steps to mend.
A craftsman bound by thread and lore—
The soul of labor, nothing more.

He bears the mark that history gave,
Yet walks through days composed and brave.
They miss the soul behind the seam,
The man who sews another’s dream.

He dreams of days when feet don't ache,
A roof above, for goodness sake.
To see his son, with knowledge bright,
Step past the shadows, into light.
No longer bound by leather's scent,
A different life, heaven-sent.

His children sleep on borrowed ground,
Their future yet to be unbound.
He dreams for them—of books and light,
Of homes untouched by daily fight.

A breeze, a roof, a patch of green,
A home where silence feels serene.
No fumes, no crowds, no aching bone—
Just peace, and pride that stands alone.

But morning comes, and dreams must fade—
He lifts again his worn-out blade.
For hope is stitched in every seam,
And life is more than just a dream.

His hands may not reshape the stars,
Or paint the sky or heal all scars.
Yet in his work, a truth remains—
That dignity endures through strains.

So let us praise these hands unseen,
Who work in silence, soul kept clean.
For in each mend, each careful thread,
A better world is born and spread.

And somewhere, deep in lives worn thin,
A fragile hope still stirs within—
That we, with all our paths gone rough,
Might find a cobbler kind enough
To take our tattered dreams in hand,
And help us once again to stand.