The Ballad of the Forgotten Hands
Read and list to the tragic hymn of the shop floor.
Now streaming on Spotify!
Oh, mighty press of molten fate,
I stand before thee, bound by weight.
No craftsman’s touch, no master’s guide,
Just shadows where my hopes reside.
Steel gods above, in chains they rest,
I lift them high, I do my best.
But when they fall, when cracks appear,
The blame is mine, the cost severe.
No scroll was given, no words were taught,
No wisdom shared, no skills were sought.
Just hands that struggle, minds that learn,
While profits rule, and bodies burn.
Behold the lords in suits so grand,
With silver tongues and empty hands.
They cast their judgment, pure and cold,
Yet could not shape the simplest mold.
The beasts of metal change their face,
Each brand, each name—a different maze.
But none shall guide, and none shall show,
We walk through fire, blind and slow.
A stranger’s tongue, a foreign land,
No voice to rise, no helping hand.
Yet wisdom grows in silent pain,
Unheard, unseen, yet not in vain.
They speak of order, speak of rules,
Yet train no minds—just forge more fools.
They preach of numbers, charts and plans,
Yet none could toil with honest hands.
Oh, tragic jest! Oh, cruel design!
They build their throne from sweat of mine.
And if I fall, or dare to stray,
A cheaper pawn will take my place.
Oh, gods of fate, I call in vain,
For change will never break these chains.
Yet still I rise, though hope is thin,
For even slaves can dream within.
