Bricks

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.
Walk down,
        get brick,
                walk up,
                        pass brick.
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.
Hey look!
        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
        are bricks
                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.
Bricks
        bricks
                bricks
                        bricks!
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.