The First Poet

He lived; he told other's that he lived and all knew that they had died and now lived. He spoke no language but conversed in the wild tones of the waves and the wind. Back then, there was no past nor future, no gods, except the ever whispering heart of the moment. Words were not words but sounds, yet they left pictures behind the eyes of those that truly listened. His mother despaired of him, for he planted no crops nor killed any living meat. The poet gave no reply to the jabs and jibes of the many, for he knew that yesterday and tomorrow had no meaning, that they never would have, so he walked untouched by sorrow or fret. Eventually they named him 'Poet' an epithet none of them understood. He smiled knowing that the sound of a word was not its reality. None had the language to express all this but the poet passed on his knowledge to his offspring, and they to their children, yet even so only a few knew the meaning of 'poet' until they began to sing.