In the realm of iron's humble chip,
Where worth begins with a modest grip,
At 250 rupees, its value does dwell,
A simple piece, yet its tale we'll tell.

Transformed into a horse's sturdy shoe,
Its price leaps forth, a thousand anew,
From fields to streets, it bears the load,
A symbol of strength on every road.

Needles fine, from this chip they're spun,
Threads of life through fabric run,
At ten thousand rupees, their value gleams,
Stitching stories in silent seams.

Yet higher still, its worth ascends,
As balance springs for time it tends,
A hundred thousand rupees, the cost now clear,
For shaping moments, year by year.

But beyond the price, a truth we find,
In every form, in every kind,
For your true value, it's not decreed,
By what you are, but what you'll lead.

"Your value," they say, "is not in fate's hand,
But in your power to shape and command,
For in your being lies the art,
To craft yourself, and play your part."