And discovered the pathway there--
It sounded like nowhere he had been
Or wanted to go.

He turned, scooped up mortar,
Grabbed another brick.
He was nothing, if not industrious.

It was good land, wasn't it?
Well ... only mud and rocks maybe,
But it had potential.

And he had tools for building.

He stared again into the drum, deep into the oily water,
Past industry, past sound and sacrifice.
Was he crazy or did he hear a lamb bleating in the distance?

His trowel hit hard rock again and again.
There was shale and metal and blood,
But he kept going because somewhere he knew
He would uncover the lost foundation.

All he heard for days was a steady drumbeat
That sounded nothing like his heart.
And the lamb, again.
Was he crazy?

And if so, what were they?

He needed new questions.

The cold rain pelted his forehead,
Reminding him to breathe.