Between the Moon and the Sun (Culture)

My children, this is the pot with all my belongings The way I got it from your ancestors hands Its all in there I have changed the shape of things To fit our house of time But the weight of it, The mass of its meaning, The content of our memory Remains the same A fire on the iron's grain I am cognitive That there are other pots Whose contents I do not understand Because they severed from the line of man That deluge That spans the Ark to Babel Did so much Juxtaposing memory with history Language is a small bead now Though still it may Choke a cow. We alone have survived The harrowing journey From the eastern garden Do not drink the lotus juice again They have constructed dreams from my past I have constructed hope from their present My children, do not relent For whatever comes now We have cognition Of what we can do Use both hands to hold the pot Man is more precious Than history forgot.