Boromir telling the truth

(Yeah . . . I want to change the title of this poem, but I find the potential accident too funny.)

In weather sweet or sour

They are found at work

Sweating in the fields

Or wasting in the cube

They push to carry on

Exhausting mind and body

With a spirit barely held

They labor through the yawns

Forgetting broken dreams

That will always haunt their sleep

A longing eye looks out

Briefly to the world beyond

They wish to stop their work

If even for a moment

To enjoy what little time they have

Before they die in vain