 The Road Builders, by Volterine DeClair, read for LibriVox.org by Alan Mayers. June 30th, Silver Spring, Maryland. Who built the beautiful roads? queried a friend of the present order, as we walked one day along the mechatomized driveway of Fairmount Park. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead, driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking naught. Think of him thus when next your horse's feet strike out the flint-spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died, it is a blood gift to an ore-reaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean, and soulless was he, well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. The Road Builders by Volter and De Clare Read for LibriVox.org by DailyBab Who built the beautiful roads? queried a friend of the present order, as we walked one day along the macadamized driveway of Fairmont Park. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky, the blood yet ran upon the jagged stone. But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead. Driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet strike out the flint-spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died, it is a blood gift, to an overreaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean and soulless, was he? Well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of poem, this recording is in the public domain. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead, his comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended, he was quite, quite dead. Driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built, he was no hero, he, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus when next to your horse's feet strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died, it is a blood gift, to an o'erreaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean, and soulless was he, well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse, end of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Amsterdam, the Netherlands. Quote, Who built beautiful roads queried a friend of the present order, as we walked one day along the macadamized driveway of Fairmount Park. I saw them toiling in a blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest. The sweat dropped stripping in great painful beans. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hands still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite a dead, driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he, a poor black man taking the will of God and asking naught. Think of him thus when next your horse's feet strike out a flint spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died. It is a blood gift to an oil-reaching world that does not thank. Ignorant mean and soulless was he, well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Road Builders by Volterine de Clair, read for LibreVox.org by Iswa in Belgium in June 2008. Who built the beautiful roads? We read a friend of the present order as we walked one day along the macadamized driveway of Fairmount Park. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun. Their dull, dark faces leaning toward the stone. Their knotted fingers grasping the root tools. Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest. The sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock. The helpless hand still clutching at the spade. The slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone. But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead. Driven to death beneath the burning sun. Driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet strike out the flint-spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this. This common thing, the road, a human creature died. It is a blood gift to an over-eaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean, and soulless was he? Well, still human, a new drive upon his corpse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hands still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. As comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead. Driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero. He, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet strike out the flint-spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died, to the blood gift, to an ore-reaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean, and soulless was he. Well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of poem. The Road Builders by Voltairene DeClaire Read for LibriVox.org by Leanne Howlett Who built the beautiful roads, queried a friend of the present order, as we walked one day along the macadamized driveway of Fairmount Park. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hands still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead. Driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died. It is a blood gift to an or-reaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean, and soulless, was he? Well, still human. And you drive upon his corpse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Road Builders by Volterine DeClaire Read for Librebox.org by Lauren Lazarus Who built the beautiful roads queried a friend of the present order as we walked one day along the macadamized driveway of Fairmount Ark. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hands still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead, driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he, a poor black man taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus when next your horse's feet strike out the flint-spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died, it is a blood gift to an awe-reaching world Ignorant mean and soulless was he, well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero. He, a poor black man taking the will of God and asking not. Think of him thus when next your horse's feet strike out the flint-spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died, it is a blood gift to an awe-reaching world Ignorant mean and soulless was he, well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun, their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest, the sweat drops dripping in great, painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, a helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth, and he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead, driven to death beneath the burning sun. Driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking naught. Think of him thus when next your horses feet strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died. It is a blood gift to an awe-reaching world that does not thank ignorant, mean and soulless, was he? Well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. I saw them tolling in the blistering sun, their dull, dark faces leaning towards the stone, their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools, their rounded shoulders narrowing in the chest, the sweat drops dripping in painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth, and he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. The blood yet ran upon the jagged stone, but it was ended. He was quite, quite dead, driven to death beneath the burning sun, driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero, he, a poor black man, taking the will of God and asking naught. Think of him thus, where next your horses feet strike out the flint-spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road, a human creature died. It is a blood gift to an ear-reaching world that does not thank. Ignorant, mean and soulless, was he? Well, still human, and you drive upon his corpse. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Road Builders by Volterine de Clair Read for LibriVox.org by Sergio Baldelli Rome, July 2008 Who built the beautiful roads? Queer the friend of the present order as we walk to one day along the macadamized drive-away of a fair mount park. I saw them toiling in the blistering sun. Their dull dark faces leaning toward the stone. Their knotted fingers grasping the rude tools. Their rounded shoulders narrowing in their chest. Their sweat drops dripping in great painful beads. I saw one fall, his forehead on the rock, the helpless hand still clutching at the spade, the slack mouth full of earth. And he was dead. His comrades gently turned his face until the fierce sun glittered hard upon his eyes, wide open, staring at the cruel sky. Blood yet ran upon the jagged stone. But it was ended. He was quite, quite dead. Driven to death beneath the burning sun. Driven to death upon the road he built. He was no hero he, a poor black man taking the will of God and asking naught. Think of him thus, when next your horse's feet strike out the flint spark from the gleaming road. Think that for this, this common thing, the road a human creature died. It is a blood gift to an over-reaching world that does not thank. Ignorant? Mean and soulless was he? Well, still human. And you drive upon his corpse. End of a poem. This recording is in the...