The Hall of Records
A poem of our stories
We are merely the hand
that holds the pen,
transcribing what flows on the wind.
Echos of unraveling yarns,
stories of old,
melodies of bards singing of love
and hearts bursting with courage.
Child’s laughter and a mother’s sorrow.
Sacrifice of body and soul
resulting in defeat
and sometimes of victory won.
Lovers that ache for each other
but could never be.
Myth and lore of Gods to be feared
and of Goddesses worshipped
with offerings
of love, fire and blood.
Our prophecy spilled
by the Oracle’s bones.
We, us, you, me,
kith and kin or clan
and those that were
before the concept of time.
These words that came from many,
chanted, sung, shouted
and whispered in spoken tongue.
The words woven
into our very existence,
channeled through
our hearts and minds.
It is not our creation
but a biography of just one,
of what was, is and will come.
Entrusted to hold the pen
to lay these lines
of dictation upon on our minds,
of what gathers on the
ancestral and celestial winds.
