Something Worthy of Curation

Determined to assuage my guilt I sit with my only quill, and on wrinkled, joyful tear stained parchment write my will, my great prestation, in order to bestow on these, my perfect little ones, the bounty of this mortal probation.

In want I've had hunger's fill, and finding no nobility in this I still, without power of oration, in the wake of my life, thanks be to God, may yet leave something worthy of curation.

I can hear the bankers laughing in their towers, their fabricated mirth so shrill. They ask what is a poor man's will, as they pour out the libation. With every soulless jab at me they toast and drink to their own damnation.

Let them have their fill. I prefer the company and wisdom of the farmer and his till. A banker has the money of the world because of station, but a farmer has the riches of the earth in his plantation.

Of no value to men, but invaluable to mankind if left to distill in their hearts is everything I try, in you, to instill. In sweat and tears I lay your foundation, but watching you bloody your own hands in the building of your homes has been my life's greatest admiration.

I've not many possessions. Things flow in and out like the rill, but I've charged my scriptures, my journals, and my books to uphold you in every dream you can possibly fulfill. Your lives have been the source of my every elation, and my cup runneth over as I continue to witness the breathtaking splendor of their formation.