Smoke risin' from the fire
That good ol' men sit about.
Jet black sky
Hangin' over their heads
Shouting "Destiny! Destiny! Destiny!"
Trees huddled closely around the men,
Standing straight backed
And blank faced.
The trees like viewers of Shakespearian theatre
Encircled around a grand stage,
Chatter sotto voce
And wave leaves as a matter of course.
All the ancestors are with them
In the dirt between their fingernails.
Is the gleam in their eyes
Borrowed from the external glow of the flame?
I do not believe so.
I believe that gleam is eternalized, immortalized, and preserved
By the cycle of aspirations that flow
From one generation to the next and so forth.
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