Tomb Builders

In the cycle of generations 
first came Gods then men
those before us 
and before us again 
for a thousand seasons 
and a thousand more,
built in glory to the sun, 

on impossible hills. 
Stone carried 
on generations of skin, 
hauled on backs of 
and fathers 
and sons. 

When work was water 
and time was a river, 
moving but forever there.
completion seen in beginnings.
So labour never seemed a waste 
To those who would not see its final face.

Placed line on line 
By sons 
and grandsons 
and great grandsons 
with the precision of families
that flow 
in streams of Danan blood. 
The work uniting and binding.

Lines on line of fair men 
that descend from gods 
and worshipped 
the memory of birth 
and the glory of earth

I have built nothing, 
I have no hands now for the labour. 
I am unable. The gift of years and blood 
flows around this recalcitrant boulder, 
stranded in the river now sluggish and polluted.

I worry for 
and grandsons 
by fathers 
and grandfathers 
lost to the ways of tomb builders. 

No labours now seen worth
the prize of binding 
to face twice a year the new sun 
as the years turns 
and remember the gods
from which we descend.

© Dave Kavanagh @

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