Your eyes have your age, but your ears have your father’s.
The wisdom of words wears through the plains of history,
easing apart riverbanks,
flowing into new generations.
Ancient tribal maxims rebound in modern chambers:
The language of mouths transforms idiomatic prose
with pen and printing press,
with typewriter and tablet screen.
Ahead we forge. Edifices constructed in blistering furnaces
bring the news to tomorrow’s antiquarians and archivists,
that the songs they study and sing today
were the lyrics assembled by our mothers.
All I am blows forward from behind me.
You are there, and our parents carry us each aloft:
Resplendent on the shoulders of giants,
magnificent in foundations of dreams.
Book of Pye 