I live in a land of poverty. I’m among its ranks. No more than a stutter step above the cheats, whores, criminals that prey on us all. I’m I deserving of my position in this life, I think not. Is my crime thus which damns me to this status. I work long and hard. The rising of the sun signals the beginning of another day of toil, sunset the end. I get little pay for my strenuous efforts. I have little to call my own. I built this hut with my bare hands, mud and grass the only materials the gods have chosen to provide. Thatched reeds cover the roof. At night one can see god’s stars in the heavens through the tiny openings of the reeds. One hears the cries, the sounds of rutting, snores of the night. I sleep troubled; my meager blanket the only comfort. My stomach cries for food of which there is none. A ladle of warm water brings little relief to another night of pitiful rest.
There will be no sleep this night. I have summons of the chief Architect, a man so powerful, I tremble at the thought. What is my transgression, my error, thoughts flood my head. I am shaken to my core. There will be no pity; no forgiveness, one only has to step over the near low hill to see what happens to those that dare to perform sloppy work. I’m I destined to join the ranks of those upon the crosses. My work has been exemplary, space betwixt stone less than a hair. I lay stone after stone my skill at my craft speaks for its self. Why am I summoned? Has someone spoke lies of me. Told tales of treasonous thoughts, soiled my name.
It is time, the guards have arrived. My fate lies now in other’s hands. Pray for me if you see fit, I pray the god’s that I return or for a quick death.
From the Ramblings