Five thousand years old,
But aren't we all?
A gift from the gods,
Or a hole in the wall,
Where was he born?
His memory shorn
Of centuries past,
Thinks only to last.
This wisdom appeals,
To those still adrift,
A knowledge that heals,
That seals the rift
Between hope and surety,
Want and security.
For those who don't know
What stories they tow.
We may know our mothers,
Be sure of paternity,
Have records of others,
On disk for eternity.
But which of us knows
How any life goes,
How Dad as a child,
Was docile or wild?
Or back further still,
Deep in the abyss,
Through centuries till,
Such pieces we miss!
What mark did they carry?
Why didn't they tarry,
But rather rushed on
Their history gone?
Could dim silent ghosts
Secure me a history?
Thieves or great hosts,
All myths out of mystery:
A Welsh mercenary
Fled Normans to Derry,
Or how Spanish sailors
Became Irish tailors.
Five thousand years old,
But aren't we all?
If Methos himself,
If he can't recall
"Trees don't wear boots,
And I don't need roots."
This nomadic plight,
My guide and my light.
- petshark
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