The Enduring Flame:Burning Bricks

Beneath a sky that often forgets to weep,

where earth surrenders to a relentless sun,

small hands, both maiden and child, knead ancient sorrow,

shaping burdens into solid form—

each brick a testament, a silent strength begun.

Tiny feet, and those more seasoned by the sun,

dance to the rhythm of necessity's drum.

Though laughter may be muted, spirits learn to soar,

fueling furnaces that build fortunes high

for cities where their own dreams seldom bloom.

Poverty, a crucible, refines but cannot break—

it is the fiery heart, the core of their resolve.

Each kiln a forge of fortitude, where spirits rise,

each load on slender backs, or shoulders bearing years,

a legacy of resilience that will evolve.

Swollen bellies, young and old, balance life's fierce demands,

on either hip, the unwavering ache of daily strife.

Each brick holds more than earth—it cradles futures fought for,

the nascent dreams of childhood, and the enduring worth of life.

Sweat mingles with the dust of dreams deferred,

flowing down brows like rivers carving paths anew,

cementing walls that climb towards an oblivious sky,

palaces for others, built by hands both frail and true.

Hope, not a myth, but a seed they fiercely keep,

is pressed into each wall, a silent, steadfast plea,

built from sweat-stitched faith, a knowing deep within,

that someday, surely, windows of grace will swing free.

Cracks whisper tales of trials bravely faced.

Blisters map the journeys etched upon their skin.

In hardened blocks of labor, a quiet strength resides,

old echoes of laughter, resilience woven in—

fragile fragments of joy that hardship cannot win.

Paths paved in bricks, shaped by their tireless hands,

stretch forth as arteries across the breathing land.

And if you listen, with a heart both keen and deep,

you'll hear the pulse within the mortar's keep,

the vibrant ghosts of childhood, whispers on the breeze,

and the unwavering spirit that hardship ill-conceals.

No rain of ease falls here—only the ash of toil.

No carefree birds arrive—only the constant call to soil.

No playgrounds echo laughter, no poems freely sung.

Just the steady grind of time, where young and old are strung

between survival and the embers of a brighter day,

yet in their eyes, a fierce and hopeful light holds sway.

They are not fragile beings, easily defined by lack.

They are the enduring soul, pushing against the crack.

They are the bedrock of your shelter, strong and deep,

the vital marrow of your cities, secrets they bravely keep,

the unwavering heat that warms your very hearth.

Look closely at that wall, in its imposing grace.

Beneath the polished surface, find a human trace—

a fingerprint of courage, etched in time and fire,

a mark of lives that yearn, lifting spirits ever higher,

each one a living poem, etched in brick and bloom,

defying hardship's shadow, escaping any tomb.