I want to tell father I'm tired of laying bricks
so I'll tell you:
I'm tired of this mud and stone
and grass and dirt, brown red muck
set in little sections to make a wall to make a home
so it can be lived in for the next twentyhundred years undisturbed by anyone real.
Real people, the people who take life and eat fast and make things
not the ones
who sit and wait
on their packed floors
weaving wonders in their head;
I feel like making a tall wall just to throw upon their heads.
I justify my anger through my everlasting desire to help, let us love more the man
with ambitions than the one with inhibited halfhopes.

I miss wonderful looms, motherlike arachnid shaking blocks
in all practical looks: shaking cut wood and so many fibers in brilliant color.
I want to tell father that it's color I'm after, after laying brown
on brown like any other fleshtoned manic
barbarian with axe in hand
eyes flowing red,
red in hate and not in any wonder of work;
a pile of people
is all this is, I believe
and I want to tear it all down.

The idea of creation in making the building is enough for me,
but my mind reflects on the sea behind me;
when I lay the last thatch
I will take my luck to the shore
to find a good man I know
and we will sail in his floating home
over the waters, paddles in hand, spears in hand,
ready to make landfall in some unexplored reach.

This is our ambition: we will spread
the love of our gods to them,
they will love us for the eternal
and we will take from them everything;

To bring back bodypacked spices
for laurels, gleaming jewels with red sheen and brown gleam,
is to be a hero, to be son of the brickmaker,
to transcend title, wearing robes fitting my stature!