Historical Imagination

In a place that's now barren soil
I tread upon the grassland and grip the barks

Where there is only air and sky
I feel the textures of cyprus and pine leaves

Where silence locks away so many secrets
I hear the chants of tribes and the heave-ho of the craftsmen

Where all around me is simply dust
I smell the baking of bread and roasting of beans

Where raw sculptures stand weathered by over 10 millennia
I fondle the ropes and the damp clay

My stylus presses into the commemorative stela
Impressions play out between my neurons

Copper weights and goods for barter 
Such things fill a woven sack long desintegrated 

Upon my bare wrist are carnelian beads
And my booted feet feel the breeze through sandal straps

Upon a godless tell
I recite prayers to unknown gods

My empty hands grind berries with crude pestel and mortar

In broad daylight
I navigate the star constellations

The icy wind is warm with heavy sweat

On an empty stomach
I taste sacrificial blood and process raw flesh

Under my feet these bones
They are covered in skin and floral gifts
Ancestors equipped for the afterlife

But my mind is on the before
How things once were

Here...
In the historical imagination