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.
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