The Work
A poem written by the young captive of a ruthless warlord.
By Jared
By Jared
Sha-shunka, sha-shunka, sha-shunka
chant the machines
as they continue their steam-fed work
all around me.
Low sing the voices of the workers
as they
swing
their
tools
in time with the rhythm
of the work song.
I do my part
to mine the stone
to chop the wood
to hammer the nails
to build my fortress,
my prison,
my home.
And as the dawn comes
we stop our work
rest, and
breathe, and
look at our handiwork.
We check within
we note the angle
against the ground.
When we nod
we gather
the others
and our meager
belongings,
and stake our places.
Then we rest,
and the whip
takes out his anger
on the fresh slaves
who must
work and
work and
gather food
for the armies
the hordes
the enemies
that bond us.
But for now
even enslaved,
it is good
to rest.
chant the machines
as they continue their steam-fed work
all around me.
Low sing the voices of the workers
as they
swing
their
tools
in time with the rhythm
of the work song.
I do my part
to mine the stone
to chop the wood
to hammer the nails
to build my fortress,
my prison,
my home.
And as the dawn comes
we stop our work
rest, and
breathe, and
look at our handiwork.
We check within
we note the angle
against the ground.
When we nod
we gather
the others
and our meager
belongings,
and stake our places.
Then we rest,
and the whip
takes out his anger
on the fresh slaves
who must
work and
work and
gather food
for the armies
the hordes
the enemies
that bond us.
But for now
even enslaved,
it is good
to rest.
Originally posted on Fishy and Stove on the Forums under Forum Games under Adventure Poems.
Unfortunately, the Forums can no longer be found through the website.
Unfortunately, the Forums can no longer be found through the website.