Arbeit Macht Frei

da teachada teacha Regular
edited July 2010 in Life
The mountains they whisper, along the clouds,
Adawn the sealit sky.
Light, beguiding lures; highlighting the azure,
Of a once gone fine summer's day.

Under the aura, the departers set,
Upon the tarnished earth.
Weary, struttering strokes; rapturing the flow,
Of a summer's calm yearning way.

The corporal bellows from atop his rank,
Out to the workers' souls.
Careless, senseless commands; rattling the trance,
Of the workers' wearing reprise.

They listen and follow; souls a'hollow,
All lost without a cause.
Their freedom and thought; beaten down,
Into a worker's frame of mind.

The months have passed, but aren't quite lost,
Into the depths of time.
A lesson learnt, and much sweat cost,
Into repairing their civilian ways.

Five days remain, upon this track,
On which they turtley slack.
Hurtling along; under hopes and song,
Until their contracts repaid:
Oh how the Legion dismayed.
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