I had never worked like I toiled that day;

I forgot about my neck and the pain,
and I loved the salt taste of sweat and green tea
and the damp dream dew of la terra, plain:
Working steadfast, with love, I built a house
out of leaves and rocks and wood and fire,
and just when I felt that I could let loose,
my house toppled down, like misplaced ire:
"Silly, silly man – Don't build a new house;
Fix up the old one that was left for you;
For time is a race, and you stand to lose,
if you don't build on it, as victors do:
One's foundations must never be one's own;
We weave with the past – our skein un-alone."
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