My Lasting Minutes

He stands with shoulders bowed by years,
By quiet weight, not loudest fears.
An immigrant with weathered hands,
Who learned that hope on labour stands.

Three jobs lost. A lifetime gone.
The race moved past while he held on.
His body aged before its time,
Yet still he rose with morning's chime.

Each ache now lingers longer still,
Each step demands a sterner will.
The joints complain, the muscles burn,
Yet every dawn he will return.

Not chasing wealth, nor seeking praise,
Nor counting out his harder days.
He simply knows that love is proved
By doing what must still be moved.

His children sleep beneath his roof.
His wife need never question proof.
For every burden that he bears
Becomes an answer to their prayers.

There are no trumpets where he walks,
No grand applause, no lofty talks.
Just lunchbox packed, boots by the door,
And one more shift... then one shift more.

Some men are forged by fate alone.
Some carry crosses of their own.
He bears his not because he must—
But because love has earned his trust.

And when his strength is almost spent,
When back and knees refuse consent,
He bows his head, then carries on—
Not seeking glory.

Only dawn.