In a workshop dim, with candle’s glow,
Where time moved steady, soft and slow,
A bootmaker sat, his hands worn thin,
Stitching soles with thread and skin.

His hammer rang on weathered wood,
Molding leather, firm and good.
The scent of polish, wax, and hide,
Hung like whispers at his side.

With careful hands, he shaped the last,
A craft unchanged by ages past.
Each measured cut, each nail struck true,
A skill the master makers knew.

The wealthy came with coin in hand,
For boots well-fit, upright to stand.
The poor brought shoes in need of mend,
For steps that never seemed to end.

Through winter frost and summer’s heat,
He worked to keep the world on feet.
No riches came, no grand applause,
Just honest toil for honest cause.

And when the years grew long and slow,
His hands, now stiff, began to know,
That though his days of work grew few,
The boots he made still walked anew.

👞👞👞