So the last will be first, and the first will be last.
An outrage! cry the workers, closing ranks.
We labored in good faith, arrived at dawn,
worked hard ‘til dark. Yet you hand us the same
wages you gave those hired at noon, sundown.
What’s more, you paid them first, left us to wait.
You must be drunk or else you’ve lost your mind
to even our pay, not count by merit.
Reward us all according to our time.
Why bind yourselves with fixed calculations?
The heart wants more. Is not the work of praise
to amplify the good? The work of love
to swell to greater love within its gaze?
You came to me at eventide, a kiss
threshed from shadows. Do I then love you less?
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