The Builders' Resolve

In front of the ancient fort, a new tower would rise,

Eighteen hands united, beneath the clear skies.

Stone and cutter played a rhythmic tune,

Building dreams from dawn till noon.

The wall, it faltered, torn by time,

One blow, one change, an uphill climb.

Stones and hands, moved and reformed,

Steps and paths, rearranged, transformed.

"What's the way out?" a voice did query,

While hope seemed distant, and hearts grew wary.

"There are nine brides," they mused in thought,

"One must bind the wall; a sacrifice, not sought."

Nine stonemasons, nine hearts combined,

But each one recalled a bride left behind.

Sighs of fear, for luck so grim, Eighteen hands,

together, would build again.

Eyes met eyes, in silent plight,

Boiling porridge poured, in midday light.

Greens withered in the heat's embrace,

As hands bore bowls, through the palm trees' grace.

"Who will spare a bride?" the oldest declared,

"Porridge bearers decide, with love declared.

" Nine faces blurred, nine hearts aligned,

A burden heavy, a fate designed.

Through palm groves walked a figure bright,

Bearing porridge, heart so light.

"Who will be the one?" murmurs rose,

Nine lives entwined, in silent prose.

Eighteen hands resumed their task,

Building with vigor, no questions asked.

The wall stood tall, the tower grand,

A symbol of love, and hearts unmanned.

The bride, she came, with smile so sweet,

A sacrifice made, their task complete.

In stones and mortar, her essence lies,

A tale of love, beneath the skies.

The builders gazed, at their work so fine,

A monument to love, through space and time.

The tower stands, for all to see,

A testament to unity, for eternity.