Grind the wheat upon the stone that we may bake the masters bread,

Bind the feet to shape the bone and lay down in the masters bed,
It’s a cold hard trope to grip the throat and stop the screaming,
And a bold heart’s hope could slip its rope and drift if it just stops believing,
Hold hard to the seamless, senseless dreams of yesterday,
Cold hearts cannot seem to dream those dreams again today,
Born as the foil of tragic toil and suffering too large to measure,
Scorned and bespoiled by mutterings from those with hearts as tough as leather,
Let the whip lash at my back it will not break my spirit,
Let the ship crash with a crack upon the rocks with all still in it,
And in that swirling foam let all with heavy pockets sink,
To them the whirling water’s death, to us it’s just another drink,
And let their, “Precious treasures,” drag them to the depths to see no more,
As those who understand their measure drift on to the distant shores,
And as they stand upon the sand cold and naked but still breathing,
They will understand that they were saved by understanding meaning,
The dreams that told them, “You alone will live when others can’t survive their greed fuelled drownings,”
“You and you alone will thrive and strive to live as one with your surroundings,”
“No more will you grind corn for those obsessed with taking all they can,”
“You’ll take only what you need and share it with your fellow man,”
“For utopia is not a place of effigies or needless riches cloaked in gold,”
“But a cornucopia of such grace and beauty that is yet untold.”