The hunt is on,
And in the grasslands,
Stands a solitary mammoth.

The hunters close in
Silently and downwind
With coordinated movements.

At the leader’s signal,
They launch the attack
With their 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 walls of their cave.

Maybe, to celebrate,
Or maybe as a guide
For future generations.

Walls – they may be built
Of lifeless stones,
Or 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 reminisce 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.