Moon at Half Past Noon

From dust they rise, and screens they gaze,
Across the globe, through modern haze.
No gilded halls their stories claim,
But fields they tend and digital game.

Through sweat of brow and keystroke’s hum,
In sun-baked earth and offices numb.
They bear the weight of different chains,
One bound by soil, one by the gains
Of unseen forces, swift and stark,
Leaving their imprint in the dark.

They’ve known the scorn, the sidelong glance,
The fading hope, the second chance.
Felt boots of power, heavy, grim,
And algorithms that dim
The human spirit, line by line,
Leaving them feeling less than fine.

But in this struggle, old and new,
A strength is forged, a wider view.
They know the worth of honest deed,
And human connection’s vital need.
For they have shared the meager crust,
And offered help, because they must.

Have built their lives with calloused hand,
And navigated digital sand.
A tapestry across the land,
Where different hardships intertwine and stand.
This lived experience, deep and bright,
A wisdom born of day and night.

It understands the aching back,
And the relentless, mental track.
The silent tears that life can spill,
And the isolating, constant thrill
And dread of systems, cold and vast,
Where human worth can fade too fast.

So when they rise, their voices blend,
Where ancient hardship finds its end
And modern battles start to bloom,
To push back shadows, pierce the gloom.
They bring a truth that cannot fade,
A stronger foundation to be laid.

To stand as one,
Must heed the struggles everyone
Has borne and carries, deep inside,
Where dignity cannot be denied.
The common heart, in every guise,
Reflecting hope within their eyes.

They are the roots, beneath the soil,
And the connecting digital coil.
On whose firm ground, true freedoms grow,
Where every marginalized can know
Their worth, their power, and their place,
United in the human race.