All that can be cherished from this world,
All that makes life worth living,
Is that which you have mined from its bowels through your own toil,
Fashioned from its clay by your own craft,
Fired in the kiln of your own heart.
That for which you bruised your hands and wearied your limbs,
For which you beat back the beast inside you,
For which you defied a mocking world.
Oh, how precious, how resplendent a feast,
a life forged by the hands of its own master!


I’ve toiled the earth day after day, trying to draw perfect lines of soil, row after row, so as to carefully plant my fragile little seeds, only to cover them up with just the right amount of dirt, then giving them a cool refreshing drink, nourishing them well, and now I can lazily sit back in my worn out rocking chair, eagerly watching and waiting for the first sight of a small green head to pop thru the earth, then I can be proud of a job well done, knowing that I’ve done something right, exactly what my forefathers taught me to do. Thank you, G d for giving me and my brothers this insight to use the gifts you’ve laid before us so we could learn how to provide for ourselves.