In time before the drowning
We scuttle to wakefulness.
Playing notes on the bones of the earth.
Above us feet move, pause;
Sure, or lost, we do not know.
Only that the gods up there made our home.
Sometimes they come down
Into our darkness, to rest.
They bring light, but it does not avail them.
We eat them, to honour,
Grind bones for bread,
Wonder if the word "Troll" is our name.
No comments:
Post a Comment