They speak to me in an unhurried splendor
As if assured that I will listen - and
They are of course, correct. I am not tender,
But young I am, and harken to command.
I cannot see their bones, for they are gone,
Nor look into their eyes, which long before
Passed from existence - I hear but the wan
Pale voices echoing across the floor.
They speak of love and hatred, and of pain,
And trust that I will know whereof they speak.
Sometimes I think they are the falling rain
Splattering across the chimney peak
But whether they are ancestors or not
I listen to them, and they're all I've got.
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