And still there are these damn bricks.
All my life is in these fucking bricks!
Always the same color,
this dull, dull brown, like dung.
Listen to that wind!
That's the same wind I've heard since I was a boy!
Always threatening to tear me away
and cast me down.
Another damn brick- what a surprise!
They should be passing up today's food soon-
but not yet, just a brick.
Yeah, let's build a tower they said,
a tower to touch heaven,
a tower to make our name,
a tower made of these damn bricks!
Days and days and days go
and all I've ever known is these bricks.
They're my art, my culture, my knowledge,
my love, these bricks.
Oh, to be able to just walk!
To walk on a level line,
not having to ascend or descend-
to walk on something besides bricks!
But no, all there is for me
and the wind
and sometimes food.
And a hope:
that our children will look back,
after we have touched heaven,
and celebrate in what we have done.
Here you are sir, look!
It is a brick, for you.
I'll be back in a few minutes with another
just like it. See you then? Good.
Walking down again,
to get another brick,
To carry it up,
so that it might help touch heaven.
Should life have more than this?
I wouldn't know.
I hear stories,
but that might have just been the wind.
I see the ground so far below me.
Above is the blue sky, what we aspire for.
Beneath, only dirt, the color of dung.
Or of brick.