The Unsung Porter

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In the labyrinth of steel and hurried feet,
Where voices rise and fall like tides,
I saw him, standing still amid the flood,
A railway porter, a humble guide.

His face, a canvas weathered by sun and rain,
A silhouette carved by relentless days,
Eyes steady, burning with quiet fire,
Holding stories words can't phrase.

His back, a testament to countless burdens—
Luggage, hopes, unspoken dreams—
A testament in muscle and bone,
Carrying worlds in silent streams.

On sun-drenched streets and rain-soaked lanes,
He walks with an unassuming grace,
Each step a rhythmic heartbeat,
Each breath a sigh of everyday grace.

A bridge of strength, yet fragile in its own way,
Connecting distant worlds to home’s embrace,
His shoulders bowed but unbroken,
A testament to enduring grace.

His faded red shirt, worn but proud—
A silent badge of dignity bowed,
In weary eyes, a steady flame—
A quiet whisper of a name.

The burden he bears is more than steel and wood—
They are prayers whispered in solitude,
Hopes for kin, dreams kept alive—
In his silent, steadfast drive.

Climbing life's steep and winding slope,
Every drop of sweat is hope's antidote—
A testament to dreams deferred,
Resilience in each labor’s word.

A forgotten hero—unsung, unseen—
His song lost in the city's din,
But in his silent strength, a beauty gleams—
A soul unbroken by the chaos within.

His shoulders, a canvas of the world's heavy art—
Bent like willow, yet resilient in heart,
A tribute to kindness in his silent face,
A symbol of enduring grace.

I watched him, an invisible ghost—
Within the throng, he stood the most—
Muscles straining, years carved in lines,
A story told in silent signs.

His hands, maps of a life endured—
A roadmap of pain, hardship assured—
Yet in their work, a stubborn hope,
A silent vow to cope.

Fleeting coins, only promises brief—
A barren land, a brief relief—
A tiny gesture, small but true,
A moment of grace, a kindness due.

He nodded slow, tired but dignified—
A humble king, quietly dignified—
His eyes spoke volumes, silent, deep,
Of sacrifices made, of promises to keep.

When night descends and strength fades away,
He fears the dawn of a final day—
Not just the end of labor’s toll,
But losing the hope within his soul.

For the weight on his tired head, so simple, so bare—
Hides the storms that rage in his stare—
Thoughts of stolen youth, dreams deferred,
A silent cry, unheard, unheard.

And yet he walks, with an enduring grace,
A battlefield etched on his face—
A monument of silent, stubborn might,
A symbol of everyday fight.

His life, a testament, quiet and true,
To strength that blooms in humble hue—
A hero not in fame’s bright blaze,
But in the quiet persistence of his days.

So when I see him, I see more than toil—
I see a soul that refuses to spoil—
A silent hero, unbowed, unbroken,
In every step, a promise spoken.

May we remember him, beyond the noise,
The silent strength, the quiet poise—
A testament to grace in daily strife,
A hero’s heart, alive in life.

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