Posted on | June 17, 2012 | No Comments
There’s a two million year-old man no one knows.
They cut into his rivers.
They peeled wide pieces of his hide from his .
They left scorch marks on his buttocks.
He did not cry out.
No matter what they did, he did not cry out.
He held firm.
Now he raises his stabbed hands and whispers that we can heal
We begin the bandages. The rolls of gauze. The gut, the needle,
We slowly, carefully, turn his body face up.
And under him, his lifelong lover, the old woman is perfect
He has laid upon his two million year-old woman all this time
Protecting her with his old back, his old scarred back.
And the soil beneath her is fertile and black with her tears.
(Clarissa Pinkola Estes)