Mother,
my father,
Ancestor;
I didn't ask you for
These trophies of your
Passing;
In the distant
river I caught
those city skeletons,
In their netted caravans
Rising,
And so I ran and cowered
Away
Into the mountain's
Berry vines;
I heard your wither wind
Coming,
All too cold and eager
To tell your children,
What the bones
Say.
my father,
Ancestor;
I didn't ask you for
These trophies of your
Passing;
In the distant
river I caught
those city skeletons,
In their netted caravans
Rising,
And so I ran and cowered
Away
Into the mountain's
Berry vines;
I heard your wither wind
Coming,
All too cold and eager
To tell your children,
What the bones
Say.