
They do not ask for praise,
nor seek the sun’s embrace.
No monuments are built for them,
no songs are sung in their name.

Yet beneath the weight of the world,
they toil, unseen and uncelebrated,
turning decay into renewal,
breaking what was into what will be.
Soft-bodied architects of the earth,
they do not question their purpose—
only move, only mend, only trust
that the soil will welcome their labor.
And when the rain betrays them,
casting them onto the hard pavement,
they do not rage, do not despair.
They only wriggle toward whatever hope remains.

And sometimes, in the vast indifference
of the world above,
a hand will reach down—
a quiet, careful kindness,
lifting them back into the place they belong.
They do not know her name,
but they feel the warmth of her fingers.
And in return, they press beneath her feet,
lifting her too, in ways she cannot see.
Not all will make it.
Not all were meant to.
But those who do will carry her love
deep into the roots of the earth,
where it will whisper its way
into the things that grow.
And when she walks,
the earth beneath her will remember.
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