We crossed over deserts, meadows, mountains,
travelled by rivers and seas, Arctics and Antarctics,
planted vines, bridges and ports, raised sheep and sons.
We built churches, cathedrals, palaces and poor hovels.
We lit fire into dark nights and hope into sore souls,
have also made mad things we prefer never to remember.
We threw roads and rails, telegraphs, cities, skyscrapers,
even an audacious tower, at Babel, when, our history tells,
You promptly restrained us.
Your sons became grandsons, great-grandsons, at last, us,
adoptive sons who every day attempt to remember
what was like one face that it has been said
we had been patterned from.
First published in Whispers, December 04, 2015.
Published in Dead Snakes, February 29, 2016.
Published in West Ward Quarterly, Winter 2017.