Craft

In quiet workshops, where wood and thread entwine,
Hands trace the grain, the stitch, the steady line—
A shaping thought becomes a tactile song,
Each measured cut a patient, quiet throng.

From clay that sighs beneath a potter’s palm,
To ink that flows where calligraphers calm,
The craft is more than tool or tested skill,
It is the heart’s own rhythm, calm and still.

We mould our world with purpose, gentle art,
Turning raw desire into beating heart—
In every seam, each polished, loving stroke,
The soul speaks loud in things that softly spoke.