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The Beast smirked, horns quivering ...
"You know you want to", he said, nodding toward the hills
There, above a dark, gaping wound of earth, Página Sagrada shone.
A sheer, white marble face of mountain, it shamed all other quarries,
Yet this was no quarry ... it was a holy place,
A place of grand design and consecration.
Ropes and ladders and scaffolding crisscrossed the shimmering wall ...
Men and women of the greatest skill and insight,
Speckled its towering cliffs like ants on a wedding cake,
Attending their arms to the most revered task in the kingdom.
Thousands of hammer-on-chisel ringings swirled the canyon,
Like the hail of pellets on a tin roof, it was a pleasant sort of thunder,
And could be heard in the gold-cobbled streets of Cielo City miles away.
It was a song of testament toil that the common folk adored ...
A song of love and loss and life ... a song ... of poetry.

It was a city in itself, yet none of the engravers, the grabadors, were indigenous ...
Each was from a different metropolis, the larger ones of the world,
Each, carefully selected as possessing The Gift - El Don,
And sent there to live a life of sacrifice and celibacy ... and writing.
It was the most revered occupation that any person could hope for,
The greatest, grandest blessing a human was ever gifted,
So rare, the odds of being chosen were beyond wishing for,
Yet, for ONE gifted and very lucky person from each fair city,
It meant fame and honor and wealth ...
A comfortable life for themselves and their loved ones back home.
Yes, the work was hard and dangerous, and oft-times hot in the naked sun,
But the rewards were far more than just spiritual ...
The very finest foods and comforts awaited them at each close-of-day,
And nearly anything of wish or want, was theirs by just asking.

They were the grabadors, you see - the gifted ones, the word-weavers,
Turning script into art, phrase into beauty, rock into rhyme,
They alone heard and conveyed the language of the heavens ...
They alone ... conversed with God.
"It takes but your word to make it so!", added The Beast.
The man had dreamed of it always, since his childhood,
He'd even dabbled a bit in his backyard after work,
Using tools he'd found discarded along the road to Página Sagrada.
"Oh, there will be trials - of that there's no doubt ...
Some of your best work may never be read ...
Others here may be too, um ... introspective, to pay it mind ...
Unless you pay theirs mind, of course!", winking one eye ...
"There are machinations as well, no different than elsewhere ...
Tournaments, they hold, to earn extra, ah ... privileges, if you will,
Oh, you'll find those quite interesting, I think", The Beast chuckled.

"You see, certain ... arrangements are made,
And if you're not part of the 'backscratching' club,
Well, you may find things a bit more ... challenging, than otherwise.
But no worries, I'm sure you'll fit right in, (despite your peculiarities) ...
Rub the right shoulders, and you'll be swaying in the breeze!
No more worries about quality - rhyme, meter, imagery, depth - ha!
Those are concerns for the foolish, those rather sour 'non-club' members ...
With the proper fluff and those soft bow lips of yours,
Your well-placed kisses will do the poetic trick!
(And let me tell you, these artsy-fartsy tushies are cleeeeeeeeeeean!).
I know, I know ... you have that 'integrity' thing,
But without a bit of ... cooperation, you'll be chiseling at night ... alone!
(And engraving Sonnets under lamplight at 1,000 ft is no fun!).
Some may never read your work, but think of the life ...
Your family - safe and sound and sated for the rest of their days!"

(To be continued)
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