My ancestors rode across the steppes
rode beneath the rolling thunder.
Between them and the land
their mother
there was no divide
but the trampling of hooves.
The dancing of shamans
rumbled the earth below
and shook the skies above.
Fire carried the departed
back to the stars
and archers on horseback
led an age of gold and valor.
And now I sit and languish,
riding only a rusty beast
in an age of entropy, of the artificial
mourning the past, fearing the future.

What would my ancestors say?

© The Oracle of Water – Meredith Everwhite 2024 All Rights Reserved