Our fathers lie beneath the land
That bore them into birth,
That buried with a heedless hand
Their bodies in the earth;
Who living labored long ago
As fortune did allow,
For children they would never know
Who do not know them now.
But still the land is burdened with
The memory of men,
Entangled by an ancient myth
That speaks to us again
Of distant generations who
Are dead and now forgot,
But waiting to reveal anew
The living they begot.
So now we sing our fathers’ song,
A poem of the past,
Because they could not sing it long
Or finish it at last.
Copyright © 2014. Donald W. Moore. All rights reserved.
May not be used or reproduced without permission.