A wall stands solid in the yard.
Its purpose is unknown.
It stands as if a watching eye,
An ever-waiting drone.
Long has it stood lonely there
Among the curious eyes.
Long will it there hold its ground
Beneath their distant skies.
Understand? They never will
So long as it there stands.
It stands because it always has
Upon those ancient lands.
It does not stand for love of man,
And that is what they loathe.
They would have a water-well
To satisfy their trove.
Or something pretty, marble made,
To liven up the yard.
This stone-spun quarry, sickle grey,
Is useless to their lard.
They would tear it down at once
If it would only yield,
But it is stronger than most strong
Upon its earthen field.
And so they loathe it every day
In vain of uses spent.
And still it stands upon those lands
From whence they often went.
So does each and every man
Stand among his peers:
A wall of useless, fickle stone
Challenging their fears.
But so as like the loathsome wall,
All men must make their stands,
And so they will for all of time
Till fallen are their sands.
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