In ancient lands where stories weave,
A name resounds, a tale to cleave,
Wika, the craft of ages old,
In whispers soft, its secrets told.

Through hands of skill and hearts so true,
The art of Wika grew and grew,
Each piece a testament to past,
In every line, their legacy cast.

From stones and clay to metal bright,
They forge with passion, day and night,
A dance of fire, a song of earth,
Each creation, a timeless birth.

So let us honor Wika’s name,
In every craft, their endless flame,
For in their art, we find our soul,
A journey that forever rolls.