We are the ones
who wake before the sun,
not to chase dreams,
but to build them
brick by brick
for someone else.
We are the hands
that hold the roof steady
while others dance beneath it.
The roots, buried deep,
so the tree can bloom
for our children.
We smile,
but it’s a tired smile—
the kind that knows
joy is a luxury
we packed away
for later.
We don’t walk roads,
we pave them.
Our feet bleed
so theirs can wear shoes
that never touch the dust.
They call it love.
And it is.
But it is also
a quiet kind of dying—
a slow giving away
of pieces of ourselves
until there’s just enough left
to wave goodbye
when they fly.
And when we finally sit
to taste the fruit
of all we planted,
fate sometimes
pulls the chair away.
Still,
we do it.
Not for glory.
Not for thanks.
But because someone had to
break the ice,
cut the path,
light the fire.
We are the ones
who carry the world
so others can run free in it.
And maybe,
just maybe,
that is enough.