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The workers' feet tramped down the well-worn path toward the village,

cresting the last rise as the walled enclosure spread out below them to the south.

The sun, blessedly, had set behind the hills to the west,

but the ground was still baked hot underneath their feet,

like touching the outside of an oven that was still in use.

The omnipresent dust stained their loincloths and killed a dull gray,

almost indistinguishable from their dust-stained skin,

which was broken only by the darker trails left by the rivulets of sweat

that had poured out of them on their long hike.

But now they were almost home.

The week was over at last, after eight days of continuous labor

and two short nights spent in the tiny one-and-two-room huts

on the edge of the sharp-edged valley where they worked.

Set-mought, the place of truth, their village laid just a few steps away.

The workers could smell home,

baking bread in the ovens, roasting fish, stews, cooking over the hearth.

Their mouths watered after days of stale rations.

They could see their wives, children,

elderly parents, and relatives waiting for them.

Smiles and waves and shouts of greeting filled the depression

...