Master Hands

bricks lay scattered,
cement piled up bad,
the mason was ill trained,
and was a new lad,
he knew nothing,
and could not begin anything,
came the master craftsmen,
and the bricks themselves walked to places,
cement gelled with water,
and leaped to seal,
the building shaped,
and no longer was a dream.
Copyright © | Year Posted 2005

Poem

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