If at the bowels of a fallen dusk
Fetched from the washing of dead sweats
Off the body of a derailing day
Time sends us back to fish in the river
Of questions and bring answers
For our children to devour:
What shall we tell them of our days?
Shall we tell them
The tales of how we failed
To hold our tongues from drinking
When our stomachs did burst?
Of how we harvested the tuber,
Of how we ate the seedling
Of how we drizzled on the soil
Deadly crude and left on it deadly fluid.
Or of how we plucked our eyes
And set out on a journey to paradise,
With old walking sticks,
Guiding the way
To a new testament
That was never in the old?
Shall we tell them that
Some sick saddened notes bought our souls,
And our tamed tongues found its way
Into the sacred silencing can of recycled tricksters?
Shall we tell them of these foolish things
Things we still do?
If you know, let me know
What we will tell them?
Let me know,
What we will say to them
When they crack our names
On their bitter lips
As we appear before them
With unclenched lips?