Men who thrive with intent clear, Never look back, despite their fear. With hands steady and mind like a star, They carve their path, no doubt how far. As the clock strikes ten, They step into the Colosseum's den With the hope of making some gain At the cost of the excruciating pain. Holidays, what are they? When the storm of tasks is at the fray Throughout the year, month and day To uproot obstacles away. He moves through woods in search of wood, And also through terrains covering his hood Just for the quest of some wealth and food To sustain himself and his family for good. Does that help him out? Sometimes yes, sometimes not. His efforts not getting the respect he thought Brings his brain to a standstill, a rot. Still, does he stop being what he ought? -That's the question his son sought. Through dust and storms, wind and rain, Through plateaus and fields, the hilly terrain The oceans and seas seem mighty enough But in front of hunger, not really that rough. Had the factorie...