Once upon a time and sometimes, even still,
Men call him by name and worship him, a god.
Not a God, who demands and receives men's fear,
Their prayers His just payment for paths they trod.
No quivering or terror is desired by he, no fearful pleas,
Prayers with this one are but dialogue with an old one;
Abuelo, Grandfather, Uncle, Sire.. Happy prayers.
Viejo, we pray to thee to return to us, thy lonely ones.
With Thy coming play the sun warm upon thy flute.
Grace us with children and rains and honeybees.
O lover of the singing reed, give us a fecund earth as Mother.
And give unto her womb thy holy cargo, the sacred seed.
Hide not from us, beloved bringer of life, we know thee.
No paint or warbead decorate thee or feathers of Hawk or Eagle.
Wear a crown of ivy leaves and smile as you play to encycle us
Bearer of the sacred seed, player of the singing reed,
To know this of thee is to know all. Yol Bosum!! may there be a road.
By William Kershaw written just for Constance's Tell His Story contest