In the Forge of Hands and Dreams:Vishwakarma’s

 In the Forge of Hands and Dreams

From Vishwakarma’s ancient grace—a lineage profound,
Like rivers carving paths through stubborn, rocky ground.
Borne of gods and craftsmen, where skill and soul abound,
Yet often they labor on unyielding, stony ground.
Their burdens heavy, like unspoken grief profound,
Their lives a testament—though silent, deeply sound.

For theirs the struggle, etched in sun and rust,
Like wrinkles marking faces weathered by life’s gust.
A quiet battle fought with faith, and bound by trust—
In every grain of sawdust, every spark that flies,
A fleeting moment, like a tear that quickly dries.
The mark of generations—humble enterprise.

Carpenters, with timber, patient, soft, and keen,
Their hopes taking shape, like saplings pushing green.
Building cradles for the newborn, temples for the seen,
With hammer’s song and chisel’s whispered hum,
Each careful strike, like choices overcome—
Carving the spaces where new lives will come.

Blacksmiths, in the furnace glow, where embers fiercely flare,
Their passions burning bright, defying dull despair.
Shaping stubborn iron with strength and craft so rare,
Each strike a prayer, each anvil echoing deep—
A resilient spirit, secrets it will keep,
A promise forged that time itself will keep.

Bronze-smiths pour their molten hopes in fiery streams,
Like dreams unleashed from slumber’s silent gleams.
Casting vessels of memory and dreams—
From patient molds, from flame’s consuming might,
Emerging stronger from life’s darkest night—
Beauty born of endless night.

Goldsmiths, with touch so light, where precious metals gleam,
Like fragile joys protected in life’s stream.
They spin beauty’s whisper, like a waking dream—
Chains of gold, the blessings of their art,
Adorning lives like solace to a weary heart,
Their craft a sacred heart.

Masons, steadfast, brick on brick aligned,
Like building futures, one challenge left behind.
They build monuments to hope, to futures intertwined—
Their labor stands, though they may fade from sight,
A silent strength enduring through the fight,
A fortress of quiet strength, a testament of might.

And though they walk in shadows, not in fame’s bright light,
Their worth unseen, like stars obscured by night.
Their legacy is etched in every beam and spire,
With humble tools, with spirits burning bright—
Their inner fire, a beacon in the night,
They forge the dawn and sculpt the coming light.

From Vishwakarma’s children—these makers of the world—
A tapestry of lives in hardship gently unfurled,
A chorus of creation, where sacred fires are swirled.

Their hands, like Da Vinci’s visions, make each line a work of art,
Like Michelangelo’s chisel, sculpting truth from heart.
Their quest for form, like Edison’s trials that lit the world anew,
Or Curie’s patient search for knowledge pure and true.

Like Perumthachan, whose hands shaped temples and lore,
Crafting wonder in wood—wisdom’s humble core.
Like Jesus Christ, a carpenter whose touch could heal the soul,
Building hope in humble wood, making broken spirits whole.

Like Sushruta, healer, carving new paths to cure,
And Chanakya, whose wisdom shaped empires sure.
Like Ustad Isa, whose vision crowned Taj Mahal’s dome,
A monument of love—forever standing home.

And countless Unknowns, whose hands remain unseen,
Silent pillars of history, crafting every scene.

Through sweat and flame, through hardship and grace,
Like Gandhi’s quiet spinning wheel, each thread a hope’s embrace,
They build tomorrow’s dreams—a living, breathing place.

For in their craft shines hope that will endure,
A fragile ember, nurtured to be sure.
A quiet dignity, resolute and pure—
From struggle born, with pride in every line,
Their spirits soaring, past constraints that bind.
They shape the world, and through their hands—divine.