The Bureucrats Heavy Pen. Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

The talk of years, a silver rain,
To work until our backs all pain.
They speak it soft, with faces bright,
Of seventy years, and fading light.

But hands they hold are clean and neat,
No soil of earth, no sun's fierce heat.
A pen they lift, a paper's weight,
They know not toil, nor early, late.

Do they recall the ache and strain,
The weary bones, the sun-baked plain?
The lifting, pulling, day by day,
That takes the strength, then steals away?

Perhaps they dream in ivory towers,
Unknowing of life's heavy hours.
And we, who know the sweat and grime,
Must face this thought, one weary time.

T.M.Solvang