|
5000 Year Old Man (discovered intact in Europe)
... A Poem
It was late fall, winter's edge, too late to graze the flock No hawk circled on the heights. We should have been in the valley now. I lay down in a sheltered place, a ravine, a kind of moraine. My journey had been long, my goats attacked, dispersed their prey the kid to young to run, the brave but foolish buck, one charge too many to protect. I lay down in my deerskin shirt and pants, hair-side out, pulling my rush-woven cloak about me, deerskin boots stuffed with dry grass to blunt near-winter's bite. of darkest void and misty night shot through with brilliant, blinding light like streams of stars, great bursts of sun, the roaring cave-mouth fire that shoots its orange and yellow sparks likes swarms of summer gnats and flies, like stars that fall in mountain nights... I wish I had my cave tonight. the flame of fire and close-packed flesh... the snow began to softly fall He looks between his mother's heavy legs at flames that climb the roasting rabbit his father slew, staring at the orange, the green and blue, beneath a pile of gentle skins softened by his mother's chew that yet contain the spirit of the deer as the marmot's golden burrow grass still holds the warmth of August passed... The marmot in its darkened den has bid farewell to light and sun and lies with hands on breast like otter holding fish or shell while swimming on its back. Gopher teeth protrude from parted lips' slow-sounding snores of deep content, summer's graze of leaf and root turned fat, well-cushioned ribs beneath a thick and lustrous coat. The matted grass that softens burrow earth rustles when the marmot turns in dreams of tart, sweet herbs and harmony, sun-warmed rocks and flesh, the springtime promise yet to be, the sharp, quick stab of searing heat in search and finding of a mate. I, too, turned but few times in my sleep, but unlike the marmot in its dreams, hugged tight my skins and cloak in tired confusion's vain attempt at warmth, covering my head with reeds, joining deep marmot thoughts, ant and pebble thoughts of moss and snow, goats and distant gods, and could never be again. The snow that slowly covered him, like down on geese, was warming like piles of hides and skins that from the bear protected him when snuggled under as a child looking past his mother's legs at the rabbit roasting in the flames. Deeper, deeper the silent, hissing snow, until his slowly breathing body was but a mound of white, and then the ravine was level with the slope. A million geese would have to die for such a downy harvest. Soon his breathing slowed and stopped, like waking from a dream, to slow and stop once more, to stop and dream forever, left arm under his head... He lay and he lay in time's embrace, that turned the snow to ice. a trap geese always seek to flee, breaking through their earthly tie, the sloth of time and place, the stars' eternal call, and space. His sleep was the dream of life and death. Shadowed shafts of light and whirling walls of mist and doubt and hope and night played out their timeless mix, his woven strand of fiber rope, his cups and case of bark around him laid, until 5000 years had passed, a moment in the universe, unlikely, endless span to man, and he was found by mountain hikers peering out of melting ice... They thought me one of them, at first, dead by foul play, accident. but I think I am not much like you. I am from another time, another race, a place unknown, forgotten; not a better one, I'll grant, younger, but no worse than yours, from what I see with head and eyes But I do not pretend to remember, myself. I'm not sure I recall the stars, the swift, loud crack of partridge wings, the squeal of goats young in spring, butting play and joy of mountain living, flowers, grass, hot sunshine, bees, and bears and panthers, of course, always the panther and the bear. I think I will sleep again if only the snow will fall and gently let me sleep once more... He lay in brilliant solitude in timeless snow and ice, if free from wriggling maggot frenzy, like myriad pale puppies that squirm for love, And janitorial jaws of ever-searching ants, then surely beyond the reach of nosy gods and man... I dream, I dream of time and space... The light, the light, the light. Copyright by Don Gray
| 