Thieves and slaves they circle ‘round the millstone all day. Countless broken rocks shackled to iron locks with names engraved. Names of the souls they robbed, the names that got taken away.

They grind as they push and push till its ground to get their own land.

That’s the road they built. There’s the tracks they laid. All the dirt tarred and paved; all the rails spiked in grade.

Thieves and slaves they wrench their backs all day. In skin browning heat the clamps on their feet rub away the blisters to scars, they age through the bars, heads of grey.

They dig as they sing, a song that digs deep to get their own graves.

That’s the road they built. There’s the tracks they laid. All the dirt tarred and paved; all the rails spiked in grade.
Some have cracked and split. Some have worn with holes. Some lead to the past, but some lead home.

Now the work is done. The tools are resting in the woodshed with no more songs on their lips, worn to the bone. They mumble talk. They stumble on.

“All day we toil away in the white rock dust we thrive. We tear away through soil and clay just to keep most of our lives.”
Keep your eyes on the Road.

That’s the road they built. There’s the tracks they laid. All the dirt tarred and paved; all the rails spiked in grade.
Some have cracked and split. Some have worn with holes. Some lead to the past, but some lead home.