Borders lie about uncarved slaves, those who guard them know every single on them toiling their lands, for they saw them for a second and did not ask, for they as them for a minute and they only stared, for they sat with them for hours but remained silent, for they where with them for days and months and years and they left. How could you blame anyone for this? Who could you ever allow to trace their fingers through your hair, and bare the goriness of your fields, and the lands you procured for contemplation.
