"I must give my men rest.",
The lead man to the baron
Twelve rock formations rise from the red clay
The vessels land
"Finish my mansions and sleep on the grounds", the baron replies
This work is always the kind that waits
All but for those of too little patience and a quickness to judge
Non-believers land and preach the sermon of nothingness
They use and use and use
They take from us
And return only an infinite emptiness
Where I stand now is the end of land
I see the waves swell and threaten my booted feet
They inch closer
Then retreat
'The tide is rising', I speak in my head
And it does rise
Ramparts scream their gunshot songs
But it is quiet
The horizon promises endless saltwater
Osprey fly to their red flame homes
They lumber and labor heavy in the hot breeze
Circling over land, then sea foam and land again
Casting shadows over sleeping workers
And a very lonely baron
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