We ate the words. We were hungry.
We ate the words.
In the cave of our ancestors
we drank the wine of ritual,
sprinkled blood on the ground.
Who knows if it rained or snowed –
entangled in a myth
finding the way was hard
when we swallowed the sunrise and the sunset.
All the words were eaten.
What were the words, what was written?
In a dream the great hunter made a speech.
Come, he said, let us leave this torment of darkness
water and mist.
and sing for the river flowing east.
Undying on the wild way we followed
carrying the wind and waters,
the flying sky.
and the stag on the horizon
dancing amongst the stars.
Tomorrow –
would we reach tomorrow?
From the cave of our ancestors
the void continues to fill.
The letters to earth and sky
written in the outline of the hills
a sun seed in the backbone,
the tenacity of grass;
root strength
and the fragrance of fleeting things,
the purpose of growing corn
and living mud
feeding breath with fire and bones
in the silence of our hills, the fury of our skies.
