The natives remember faces
They see yours at morning and mine in the middle of dreams
With wisdom dispersed at the bottom of feet
the ground becomes a sacred place
walking through tested soil,
forgotten blood wakes in the arms of the warrior
and they remember him too
a brilliant mind,
whose thoughts couldn't outweigh death
they don't forget a face
ancient rituals run along with the children
and whisper things innocence will never know
I watch time sleep in their eyes
wisdom slips in the cracks of open hands
the elders look like god before god looked like himself
they tell us things life won't
ounces of advice pound into the rhythm of my heart
and the beat becomes a being of its own
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