When the curtains are split,
That we shall dance the dance.
The uphill dance of reconstruction:
Reviving what we can
Of all that we have destroyed.
Dancing on the rough grounds of regrets
Sharply pebbled,
Making our beds on the road full of harsh objects.
Night grooving over us its hard-feeding pinchers
And dawn its cheerless scorcher.
Down tools!
Work no more
For sins we know little!
So they say again
That men unevenly labour perpetually
For what they constantly destroy!
With the reason never clear to us
We labour back and forth
For the fruits of the fruits of our labour;
People we may never know.
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