In the palm of my hand, a coin so old,

Passed down through ages, its story yet untold.

I gaze upon its weathered face, so wise,

A relic from the past, a humble guise.

This coin, older than my fleeting youth,

Whispers secrets of lives lived, of truth.

Once, it held value beyond my dreams,

To a farmer, a laborer, or so it seems.

Years ago, its worth would shine so bright,

A humble dime, a treasure in their sight.

For the poor and downtrodden it could feed,

Their daily earnings, a symbol of their need.

Yet now, in my hands, it feels less dear,

Its value diminished, it's crystal clear.

I'd care not if it slipped from my grasp,

But a thought stirs within, a moment to clasp.

Someone, long ago, held this coin so tight,

For them, it was a beacon in the night.

Their sweat and toil engraved upon its face,

A testament to their struggles, a silent trace.

So now, I gaze upon this coin with respect,

A tribute to those who've earned and kept,

Their hopes and dreams, their hard-earned plight,

Embedded in this coin, a reminder in my sight.

In my pocket, it shall find its home,

A cherished relic, no longer alone.

For it holds a story, a legacy so vast,

A humble coin's wisdom, a treasure that'll last.

By Deepthi Monteiro

From: India

Instagram: deepthimonteiro