The hunt is on,
And in the grasslands,
Is a solitary mammoth.
The hunters close in
Silently and downwind
With coordinated movements.
At the leader’s signal,
They launch the attack
With pikes and spears.
The hunt is a success,
And there’s enough food
For the entire settlement.
Later, they illustrate
The entire event
On the wall of their cave.
Maybe, to celebrate,
Or maybe as a guide
For future generations.
Walls – they may be built
Of stones that are lifeless,
Or of bricks and cement.
Yet, they are alive
And are full of tales.
Yes, they, too, have a voice!
Like the walls of my home
That are due a renovation –
Of paint, a new coat.
As I unhang the photographs
And the paintings.
I feel myself going back
In time, to the memories
That I somehow left behind
And remember all the stories.
These are no longer objects
Of mere decorations,
But of my family, little snippets –
Of the times we cherished,
Of days spent together,
Of the people we miss.
This is the inheritance
That I’d leave behind
For my future generations.
Each one with a narrative
Very much like the drawings
On the cave walls in the ice age.
wordsofhope 