-thou art
ill born
-and thou
births ill arts. Palsied, pale and puny knowing neither skeleton, nor labouring
muscle nor flesh to clad the whole. Like foal, womb-wet, falters, folds and
falls, failing to take to feet.
-jest fool,
harp on, thy antic capers undo your dignity as they bolster mine. Clod, while
you jibe at Men-of-Office, rail at rank and thumb nose at grave Authority, we
are engraving Law, all set in stone as grey and grim as granite. We compass the
circumference and diameter of your daily round, and mark the very bounds of
your horizon.
While your
every seventh step is backwards, to stand and admire your work, we march on,
and in lockstep, knowing the brief candle of our lives shall never shed a flame
upon the whole.
You
sand-builders, mere sea-wash laps your walls away. What we raise is mountain,
no tide can topple it.
Clown,
prancing for coin, prattling paraquito, dumb ape of god, gawp, gaze, gasp, wonderstruck
At our work.
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