A Factotum's Call

The World requires—a Hand of Grace,  

To mend, to build, to weave—the Place.  

A Soul who knows—each Tool, each Trade,  

Whose Spirit bends, yet isn’t swayed.  

A Key to doors—all locked, obscure,  

An Answer sure—yet deft, demure.  

The Canvas blank—a Sense must find,  

No task too great, no cord unlined.  

One, fluent—Silence, eloquent—Stone,  

The Shape of Need—must make their Own.  

A Bridge to span—the chasm’s Breath,  

A Shield to ward—impending Death.  

Their Presence—felt, when Absence falls,  

A Voice attuned—to countless Calls.  

Jack-of-All, yet Master—None,  

Will light the Task beneath the Sun.