The Birdmen
Our carvings possessed them,
and their faces were full of awe.
We smiled, for at last, we knew,
they saw enigmas.
But then they closed their eyes,
and spoke for some time,
in nervous voices.
We are idolaters they say.
I fear what they may do.
Then our Elder sought them out.
He spoke, gave his blessing.
But delve they would not.
They said they sought rational explanations,
that they despised our gods.
It is because we can
articulate our shadows,
that they speak of superstition;
it makes them fear.
But we are not afraid,
seeing thay are truly sad,
being from a place where God has died.
And yet, I fear what they may do.
Ancestors
Their lives make earthen accents
in the soil, these men
whose iron hoes have
nicked the land.
They built with blood,
forcing footholds, paring
talismans of rock
to exorcize the dark.
Though their graves are riddles
whose meanings elude me,
I know I must appease them,
for their footsteps can still be heard
on open ground,
in the skull's rafters.
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