The Brotherhood of Labor
The waiting gardens, they
Call to me from far across the meadow
They whisper life’s eternal secrets
Told through the love of labor
They sing them to my empty soul
Fill it with fraternal songs
Composed by the brotherhood of joy
My brothers and I
Our labor is our greatest pleasure
What’s to be done, it waits for us
What we sow, it comes back to us
What we run away from
It empties out our worth
Idleness is a self-imposed illness
It is written upon our brow
The only cure for it is
The sweat that washes away
That what is written

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