Poem: the lies of scholars

Gather in,
the stone filled hall,
and hear the words,
of tuniced men.

Speak of words,
of those long dead,
and contemplate,
if flowers live.

The travelers speak,
of worlds their eyes,
have never seen,
no known before.

The workers speak,
upon their beds,
of iron flows,
by their cool streams.

Plights and fights,
and counting coins,
and unseen walls,
are all discussed.

Within their dreams,
they run and fly,
and vanquish dragons,
beyond the sea.

Their hands are gloved,
and they can’t feel,
yet they hold sands,
grain by grain.

They talk of trees,
to make them grow,
and speak of seas,
to make them dry.

They’re chained to walls,
by their own hands,
but speak as though,
their words were men.

And there in fields,
they are distained,
the men who reap,
and those who sow.

And there by roads,
they are so shunned,
the men who dig,
the traveled paths.

They speak of mills,
but have no hands,
to turn the stone,
and grind the grain.

They speak of water,
that flows with speed,
but can’t walk out,
to the water’s edge.

The ants do know,
what they know not,
that to eat bread,
you must sow wheat.

The sparrows know,
what they can’t see,
that to find food,
you must fly out.

The clouds have worth,
but not the stones,
the dreams are gold,
but work is slag.

They speak of those,
upon the path,
in hopes they too,
will dream of dreams.

And to those who work,
out in the fields,
they turn their eyes,
and do not see.