If I must work one hundred hours,
And sleep but one,
I fear your faith in me is too great,
For in that hundredth hour I rub sleep from my eyes,
Having stumbled nearly one thousand times,
And faltered a great deal more.
My feet are as anvils,
Doing more bad than good as they clumsily carry me to and fro,
More hindrance than help.
My back is taught and knotted with strain as the weight of my work takes its toll.
My calves scream,
My shoulders ache,
But the routine goes ever on and on,
Much like Tolkien's road,
With no end in sight,
Though I will follow if I can.
Indeed, I march on,
March through pain and strife,
Though my heart's dearest, most desperate desire is to collapse,
Close my eyes and sleep,
Dreaming not of the tedium of my laborious routine,
Dreaming of naught but sleep,
And of more dreaming,
So I may awaken anew,
Don my burden,
And labor on to perfection.