In sweat and blood they birthed the stones.
Their backs bent in a dimly lit choreography,  
they strained to hoist the ashlars into place.
Thirty-six years in a most sacred guild,
they each apprenticed the other.

Their aging bodies lust for sleep,
but it runs from them into the cold night.
Lying there, limbs entwined for warmth,
their calloused fingers touch scars,
which mark the years on their rounding frames.

They remember the works of their labors.
The six structures on which they’ve toiled.
Their six children raised with hope.
The six cathedrals in whom they pray,
both their memories and Christ will dwell.