Hands of Grit, Heart of Sky

Hands of Grit, Heart of Sky

The road is long, and no map is drawn.

Each step is cut from sweat and dawn.

The world does not hand crowns with ease,

it tests with storms, it bends your knees.

But those who walk with steady flame

turn toil itself into their name.

The plow is heavy, the field is wide,

yet still the farmer will not hide.

He bends his back, he breaks the ground,

and in the silence, seeds are found.

Those seeds, like dreams, seem small, unseen,

but grow through years into fields of green.

The student studies by candlelight,

his eyes grow weary through the night.

His friends may rest, the world may sleep,

but he has promises to keep.

And though his hands are ink-stained, sore,

his mind unlocks a brighter door.

The builder lifts the stone again,

with blistered palms, with weary skin.

He shapes a house, a road, a tower,

with nothing more than will and power.

Each stone is heavy, slow to raise,

yet walls stand tall through endless days.

Dreams are not wishes, tossed to air,

they are demands, they are a dare.

They ask for blood, they ask for bone,

they call for work, but not alone.

For every dream that burns within

is built by hours of discipline.

A mountain waits for those who climb,

its peak beyond the grasp of time.

The path is sharp, the rocks will cut,

the lungs will burn, the feet are shut.

But still the climber looks above,

his eyes lit fierce with stubborn love.

For dreams are stars—so far, so high,

yet clearer still against the sky.

They shine not to be simply seen,

but chased with hearts that dare believe.

And though the night is dark and cold,

the stars belong to those who hold.

Hard work is hammer, dream is fire.

One builds the frame, one lifts it higher.

Together, they create a song,

a rhythm steady, fierce, and strong.

And those who march with both in hand

reshape the earth, remake the land.

Remember this: no crown is free.

No throne is built on apathy.

The greatest rivers carve their way

through stone that thought they’d never stay.

The mightiest trees grow deep below,

where roots are hidden, no one knows.

So labor now, and labor true,

let sweat become the proof of you.

Let every scar, each weary bone,

declare the dream you call your own.

For when the world has said, “You can’t,”

your work replies, “I surely can.”

The dream is vast, the climb is steep,

but harvest waits for those who reap.

The hunger drives, the spirit burns,

and step by step, the wheel still turns.

No night can stop, no storm delay,

the one who fights through every day.

For in the end, when songs are sung,

of battles lost, of vict’ries won,

the ones remembered, brave and true,

are those who dared, and saw it through.

They built from nothing, stone by stone,

until the dream became their own.

So rise, O dreamer, take your stand,

let work be forged into your hand.

For every empire, great and grand,

was first a thought, a seed, a plan.

And what was dreamt, and fought, and done,

has always been how worlds are won.

Rise and Build

Dreams are not feathers drifting away,

they are mountains calling each day.

Not reached by chance, nor given for free,

but earned through toil, through discipline’s plea.

The hands grow calloused, the nights run long,

yet every struggle makes the spirit strong.

The road is steep, the climb is slow,

but seeds of effort are what will grow.

The dreamer wakes when the world still sleeps,

guarding the fire the soul must keep.

Through failure’s weight, through doubt’s cruel tone,

the worker builds with stone by stone.

For greatness waits on no one’s hand,

it bends to sweat, to those who stand.

Each scar a story, each step a claim,

each breath a promise to stake the flame.

Work may be heavy, dreams may be far,

but nothing dims a steadfast star.

Those who endure, who choose the fight,

turn darkest struggle into light.

So rise, O dreamer, chase and strive,

let effort prove your dream’s alive.

For hands of grit and hearts that burn

make every mountain bow in turn.