1.
It was not the white fire across the pole
nor trumpets above the desert,
but a falling away—
the vast dissolution.
Like an ice flow, pieces broke off
and flowed away
and melted.
Everyone knew the reasons
and there were a thousand reasons
each one reasonable
until one day,
it was we who broke off
and floated away
and now, none of it makes any sense
at all.
We are told that somewhere, over that way,
politicians still debate in the forums,
and everyone is working very hard on the problem.
A solution, while not at hand, is assuredly in sight.
It may yet be true.
But we,
here in our caves,
we do not believe it.
Wolves sit golden-eyed at the edge of light,
the sun limps low across the trees,
and we have not slept one unbroken night.
We do not believe it.
2.
Yesterday, a stranger came while the men were hunting
and the women were down by the river.
Some disease was on him.
His face dripped in places and only one of his eyes worked.
He began screaming
that the city was destroyed
that millions were dead
and chaos was upon the land.
He screamed that we should remember and learn.
The women drove him away with sticks,
for frightening the children.
3.
We have wandered far from the years of comfort.
We have exchanged our missiles for wishing-sticks.
We hunt in the corpse of our fathers.
The one red eye squats among impossible pines
pouring filtered light through
forests of strange geometries.
In the night we wrap the mist about our shoulders
and hunch over dead campfires, rubbing wet sticks together,
in the manner of our ancestors.
From our caves we listen to the soft howlings
that curl into dark hollows to wait.
We work in the deep corners of our caves
with the hands of old men
without light,
tracing painful patterns
hands unaccustomed
to such frail breathing.
We call upon a thousand gods
with a thousand voices
and hunt only when the signs allow it—
in the manner of our fathers.
Out here, we live only at evening.
Out here, the seconds pause before falling.
Out here, we put faith in stars.
Out here, there is only the hunt
and the howl,
and wet sticks
after the fashion of our fathers.
4.
Father, the last shadow is near, and it is time.
We of the gray canyon and the shining forest
we of the red sun
we of the valley of yellow eyes,
we turn to you, father,
for the wisdom in your bones.
The night has folded softly on the forest,
it clings to our faces like soot.
A strength in this night,
in this sealed silence,
and a strength in the river running
through all our restless pain.
The sooted night that clings,
the fragile night that folds,
softly on the river and
softly on the forest—
we suckle at this night like whelps,
like you, father, in your cave,
sucking at a bone.
The river which has run
through all our years
has left us in this shadowed corner;
motionless, we watch
the movement of inscrutable stars.
And though we worship nothing, father,
yet we honor you—for the wisdom in your bones.
And to all that has come and passed
between the alder and the yew,
to the river that flows,
and the night that clings,
to the red sun and all that has been lost and gained—
to you, father,
and this corner where we cower,
we dedicate this, our final hour.
It was not the white fire across the pole
nor trumpets above the desert,
but a falling away—
the vast dissolution.
Like an ice flow, pieces broke off
and flowed away
and melted.
Everyone knew the reasons
and there were a thousand reasons
each one reasonable
until one day,
it was we who broke off
and floated away
and now, none of it makes any sense
at all.
We are told that somewhere, over that way,
politicians still debate in the forums,
and everyone is working very hard on the problem.
A solution, while not at hand, is assuredly in sight.
It may yet be true.
But we,
here in our caves,
we do not believe it.
Wolves sit golden-eyed at the edge of light,
the sun limps low across the trees,
and we have not slept one unbroken night.
We do not believe it.
2.
Yesterday, a stranger came while the men were hunting
and the women were down by the river.
Some disease was on him.
His face dripped in places and only one of his eyes worked.
He began screaming
that the city was destroyed
that millions were dead
and chaos was upon the land.
He screamed that we should remember and learn.
The women drove him away with sticks,
for frightening the children.
3.
We have wandered far from the years of comfort.
We have exchanged our missiles for wishing-sticks.
We hunt in the corpse of our fathers.
The one red eye squats among impossible pines
pouring filtered light through
forests of strange geometries.
In the night we wrap the mist about our shoulders
and hunch over dead campfires, rubbing wet sticks together,
in the manner of our ancestors.
From our caves we listen to the soft howlings
that curl into dark hollows to wait.
We work in the deep corners of our caves
with the hands of old men
without light,
tracing painful patterns
hands unaccustomed
to such frail breathing.
We call upon a thousand gods
with a thousand voices
and hunt only when the signs allow it—
in the manner of our fathers.
Out here, we live only at evening.
Out here, the seconds pause before falling.
Out here, we put faith in stars.
Out here, there is only the hunt
and the howl,
and wet sticks
after the fashion of our fathers.
4.
Father, the last shadow is near, and it is time.
We of the gray canyon and the shining forest
we of the red sun
we of the valley of yellow eyes,
we turn to you, father,
for the wisdom in your bones.
The night has folded softly on the forest,
it clings to our faces like soot.
A strength in this night,
in this sealed silence,
and a strength in the river running
through all our restless pain.
The sooted night that clings,
the fragile night that folds,
softly on the river and
softly on the forest—
we suckle at this night like whelps,
like you, father, in your cave,
sucking at a bone.
The river which has run
through all our years
has left us in this shadowed corner;
motionless, we watch
the movement of inscrutable stars.
And though we worship nothing, father,
yet we honor you—for the wisdom in your bones.
And to all that has come and passed
between the alder and the yew,
to the river that flows,
and the night that clings,
to the red sun and all that has been lost and gained—
to you, father,
and this corner where we cower,
we dedicate this, our final hour.
