Ancestors

It fades into confusion
It etches itself in feeble
And unskilled markings
On the stone of sorrow.
A river of tears
Carved into these canyon walls.

But did it mean something?
Did it mean something
To you?

What do you see in this texture?
What do you feel
On the rough surface of its skin?

The paths we have tread
The beaten roads
Pressed under the weight of burden
Settle into a glance
Become a natural gesture.

Pumping in the blood.
Rising
And falling
In the lungs.

What power
In the gesture of the child?
What effortless expressions
Await those to come?

The child
Looking inward
Marvels at the mystery
Of its freedom.

It sees what has been marshaled
To its cause.
The child
The king of kings
Removes its crown.
It bows down to a grain of sand.
It worships at the river bed.