Poem for the Workers

The sun climbs high, a fiery eye,

On fields of green, where sweat does lie.

The farmer's hands, with calloused might,

Tend to the earth, from dawn till night.

 

The fisherman, with weathered face,

Casts his net, in endless chase.

The ocean's bounty, he does seek,

To feed the world, both strong and weak.

 

The laborer, with steady stride,

Builds and mends, with honest pride.

From towering heights to depths below,

Their tireless work, the world does know.

 

The worker's hands, with tireless grace,

Craft and create, in every space.

From factory floor to bustling street,

Their efforts make our lives complete.

 

Though shadows fall, and day grows dim,

Their spirit burns, a guiding hymn.

For in their toil, a strength we find,

The backbone of our world, humankind.