The temple oâ€™ sand gleam . . .
Seemed only a bit sandy enough with a light golden tan,
cheeky smiles upon larks,
watching the sun glisten of the slaves as they build,
bleeding blisters resting on their hands with tears,
streaking their faces raw.
The sun finally goes down like a respite from torture,
through of what comes long days,
itâ€™s never over as The Obey forth it.
The meal is near,
all are excited only to know the rations,
will never be enough for all.
Freedom a far off dream that will come,
from a being that is solid and real,
and holds only the truth and promise.
Little of enough,
theyâ€™ll push onward,
even if the work could hold little,
goes just far sufficient,
as the rations low,
the high spirits remain.
To some eyes that means nothing,
but to others,
does the job . . .
so let that soak in.