The Old Country

I have moved to the old country.
The land of my sires: a hard land;
poor in wealth and rich in spirit.
We find God in each other here.

For generations, my fathers delved under ground.
In Devon for tin, in Penn’s wood for coal,
finding only endless toil and death.
I am heir to their pain and strength.

Is my work all that different?
I want to think so.
Yet have I not sold my life, day by day,
working with little delight for mere pay?

Only when I am not on the job,
can I labor on what is significant.
The toys that bring me such joy,
the expression of things not seen.

Striving to find the balance.
My daytime work provides food and shelter.
Moonlighting as mystic, seer, and maker;
reflecting my truths in both realms.

I have moved to the old country.
The land of my sires: a hard land;
poor in wealth and rich in spirit.
We find God in each other here.

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