The Bones of Us
The Mud-painted tribe slithers between tall blades
Making ripples on the surface of a sea of grass.
The elder moves forward, quiet in the breeze.
Painted men follow his path.
Bare feet on stone,
Bare feet squeezing the feces of their prey between thick, calloused toes.
The elder raises a hand, the world stops to watch him.
His hand strikes down, the tribe moves as one body
Of water flowing forward, gathering speed
Bare feet pounding the stones, pounding dung,
Pounding the drum that summons food.
Their prey lifts brown eyes and studies the breeze
As the stench of mud painted flesh reaches its nostrils,
The prey bolts as one with its leaping cousins.
Painted men attack, throwing spears and stones
Their prey leaps and flies wild above the reeds
Mayhem ensues
The drums of the hunt are beat by bare feet and hooves.
But 2 feet are deadlier than 4 as
Gazelle after gazelle fall under the fatal thrusts of piercing spears,
Like ballerinas bowing to their final curtain.
Shrieks of joy now fill the air
Proud guttural cries of victory
Gratuitous grunts from hungry bellies
In anticipation of the feast of flesh that will stave starvation
Cheers and jeers float above the melee.
Mammalian blood paints the tundra red
Sounds of a Saturday Night Sports Bar,
A tribe-filled stadium jumps back in time to reunite with its origin,
One among them doesn’t slow his gallop
His eyes are fixed on his chosen prey, a swift 4 footed dancer.
He gains speed, closer and closer
His spear raised above his head
Poised to unleash the point of death.
He pulls back his arm for the moment of truth and stumbles.
He falls,
He falls through 10 million years
He falls, bone splintered in red agony.
His thick feet no longer propel him
He falls to the ground between reeds, dust and the dung that is his history
He screams white blinding pain, writhing in agony.
The mud-painted leader pauses to inhale the wind.
He looks to his feet where the warrior of mud twists in pain,
Holding his leg with both hands pressed to his chest.
The elder surveys the blood-soaked tundra.
He looks up at the sky and down at the earth.
Then a new thought flowers.
He looks again at his fallen compatriot
For the first time in his life, he feels his brother’s pain.
The unfolding blossom takes root is his brain.
The elder looks into the faces that are facing him.
He sees his tribe,
He sees his woman sleeping silently in the corner of his mind’s mud-thatched hut.
He sees sons that are yet to be born.
He sees himself, his tribe
He sees us all as we are.
The elder approaches the fallen, writhing man
He crouches on his haunches to view the blood-soaked fractured bone.
He looks up at the sky.
With two arms outreached, he brings his tribe closer to the fallen hunter.
This fallen man’s comrades stare into the elder’s eyes.
The moment stops, and now there is only the elder, the fallen, and the tribe.
Seen from a bird above
Cradled in mud, they are all as one,
Dirty, naked and submitting,
Surrendering beneath the sun’s eternal glare
The elder grasps dry blades of grass with both his hands and pulls.
He uproots weeds, shaking pellets of mud from their roots.
He twists the reeds into a malleable rope and twists it firmer and firmer.
Then scoops his hand into black mud.
Grasping moisture with his fists,
He spreads muck on the twisted grass.
Leaning over the fallen, who stares into his eyes.
Moving the man’s hands away from his wound
The elder wraps the grass rope round and round the broken bone.
He wraps it, then ties it into a helix, then rises, standing above the man.
The elder picks up a stone and with his hand strikes it against another-
A single glint of wisdom is born.
That sparks the kindling others have gathered.
Soon, a fire emerges like a newborn child.
The men nurture the flaming child with the pieces of wood they had gathered,
Soon there is a steady blue flame consuming dried grass, twig and wood.
Men cut the flesh from their slaughter
Thrusting bleeding flesh into the hungry fire
The sizzling smell of cooked meat fills the air.
The fallen chews the meat with his pain and rubs the grass rope that binds his fractured leg.
Under the steady gaze of his comrades, he comforts himself
Knowing that he will not be left behind.
With a stick in his hand, the elder scratches the shape of his thoughts in the dust.
The elder comprehends, we are all bound together like sticks of wood,
Twisted ropes of grass.
We are one bundle of wood.
We are one rope of grass.
In the dust between his feet, he scratches these symbols.
I translate for you here:
“We are all here in one place.
We are all one bundle of wood.
We are all one rope of grass
We are all stronger from our bond.
We are all one bundle of wood and a stick on the ground.”
Civilization is born.
Out of the mud and the shit,
Out of the sweat and the blood.
Out of the scratching of symbols in the dust,
Out of the twisted bond that heals the fallen among us.
Humanity is born.
igorgoldkind
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