This land is now mine,  the Grand man exclaimed,  borrowing from the Mother a piece of her soil. He cleared it of the helpless trees and bushes. He had worked hard for it,  and this was a product of his toil.

The first brick was laid, a foundation. The first stroke you paint on your canvas, which will remain still after layers of paint have been added to create a masterpiece.

The first wall, a humble barrier of red, was then built. The first line of the poem which could mean anything, but would hold strongly the poems lyrical beauty.

Nights later, a modest four walled hut put together to cover the purchased part of nature, and protect it from its own. A roof, a door, a window. A luxury.

Grand men need more than luxury, because they have worked so hard for it. So the Grand man did not stop.

Another storey, upon the first, and then another. When I stand up on the terrace, I’d like to touch the sky, instructed the Grand man. And so bricks were piled and cement spread.

And then it was complete,  his beauty. For him,  it wasn’t bricks, but his sweat that held his twenty storied home together.

But the Mother, she disagreed. Sweat doesn’t pain your brothers. Sweat doesn’t kill green trees. Sweat doesn’t exclude those meant to coexist.

So she shook.

The Grand man, and his grand creation, now returned to the ground, where they belonged.

A sapling begun to grow between two fallen bricks.

How high will you go before you come back?

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