I am left here descended from these fathers
Caught in the glare of sudden
Illumination.

Oh, you know the fathers I mean
The ones who chant
In the catacombs of heart
Giving voice to low murmurs
That hold time together
With wattle,
And daub,
And spittle,
And hopes.
Dwellers where dreams
Get laid to rest prematurely

They sang of you in low tones
That rumbled up faintly
Through limestone
Then soil
And the grasses
That overlay them.

Worms stretched languorously,
Cicadas pupated
With smiles on their faces
While I listened, faintly amused,
But unprepared by experience
For belief.

But oh, these fathers
These fathers who have left me here
Descended from them
Already knew about you.