The strictest of teachers walk with purpose,
In halls where echoes of learning resound,
Their eyes are sharp as Athena’s gaze,
Their words cut through ignorance like a spear,
Guiding the minds of the young with fire,
Like Hephaestus forging the blade of truth.
Students brand them with names of disdain,
Yet beneath their stern faces lies a heart,
A heart tempered in the forge of duty,
To shape, to mold, to craft the unformed clay,
For in the struggle, wisdom takes its root,
Like a tree grown from the harshest soil.
The gods smile upon their noble charge,
For they carry the weight of the future,
In every rebuke, in every stern glance,
They plant the seeds of knowledge deep,
That one day the fruit of their labor,
Might nourish a world hungry for truth.
Let none forget the path they tread,
The burden of a pedagogue’s crown,
Woven with threads of discipline and care,
For in their hands, the fate of many rests,
As the tides of time wash over all,
They stand, unyielding, against the storm.