Who cares?
Every day I shovel sand
From the temple.
The wind brings more.
Let it get buried. I have
Goats to tend.
In the spring I will be
Going up the mountain.
I will leave the shovel and
Broom for the
Pilgrims.
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1 comment:
Imagine if Sisyphus had to cart a handful of sand up a hill, rather than a single, round rock.
His misery, as it turns out, could've been worse.
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