Blisters on hands,  
rope over mens shoulders.
Push. Pull. Lift. Carry…
 
I stand from a distance,
where no one can see me.
My dad doesn’t know I am here… 

I watch the men work on brutal tasks,
they carry heavy supplies that weigh tons.
Sun beats on them, with exhaustion they continue…

Men drop, falling, not getting back up.
Why are the being worked to death? Why do they keep going? How much longer will they build?
I spot my dad, out of hundreds of men. I see him work tough…

“Dad!” I yell, as I see something no son should see--him dying,
I run over, I hear yelling, “Bigger. Bigger. Bigger.”
They keep marching, even though they have been walking for miles…

I look around, men keep building, hammers keep pounding, orders being told. Men try to make weight lighter, inserting copper together, making pieces stay. I hear men moaning, I see burns on their shoulders, pulling tons of weight. I was scared of dying the same way my dad did…

My brave dad helped with the formation of the pyramid, it is my time to help finish. 20 years go by. Pyramids are stronger, bigger, greater. The working men wipe their forehead, step back to join the others who gathered to look at the beautiful built pyramids. The Blisters on hands will never fade, just like the pyramids…