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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.
-
Author:
Ndou Rolivhuwa (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 8th, 2025 07:11
- Comment from author about the poem: The poem doesn’t seek pity—it commands recognition. It reminds us that behind every comfort or opportunity lies someone else's pain, endurance, and love. And that sometimes, the act of carrying others—despite never being carried ourselves—is the quiet heroism that defines our humanity.
- Category: family
- Views: 5
Offline)
Comments2
A poem of giving and passing down the line what we have to future generations. And so is poetry. A lovely write
Thank you so much for your kind words. That’s exactly what I hoped would come through—that quiet, often unseen act of giving that echoes through generations. Poetry, like love and sacrifice, is something we pass down, hoping it plants a seed in someone else. I’m grateful it resonated with you.
Awesome write
Thanks, I'm glad it resonates with you
You're welcome
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