Still Waters

Out of Africa.

In paleoanthropology, the recent African origin of modern humans, frequently dubbed the "Out of Africa" theory, is the most widely accepted model describing the geographic origin and early migration of anatomically modern humans.

This is a fascinating theory which makes the entire human race very closely related.
These early pioneers had no history as nothing was written down. They also had no idea, we presume, of the massive impact their migration would have on the future. I started to think.. What if they had? What would they think about it with hindsight? Here then is an answer and a question to that scenario. 

Dawn.
My eyes were drawn to the flame in the sky
seductive to both body and eye,
dispelling darkness and spreading light,
quelling dreams and restoring sight.
A swirling canopy weighing down overhead,
storm clouds hanging in the air like lead.
We had come thus far, exhausted foot sore,
but what had we suffered all this for?
Burning sand and cold night chills
our people defeated and suffering ills.
At last exhausted we had come to rest
for comfort and food we had done our best.

The Ancient One.
Oh! my children endure burning heat,
our people now can accept no defeat.
To return will be certain destruction for all,
we answer no more bloody battle calls,
our defeat is still so bitter to taste.
Listen my children we have no time to waste,
those demons behind have taken our land,
and driven us out to the barren sand.
But we’re wiser than they, we’ll find our place
and make it our own for spreading our race.
There is a land where the air’s cool and clear
a place to live without hatred and fear.
A place where the grass grows long lush and green
where bubbling brooks run out fresh cool and clean,
I’ve dreamed of this place, I know that it’s there
but only for those who will chance and dare.
So come my people open wide your eyes,
make it worthwhile for all those who have died. 

The Visions.
The ancient one sickens and is carried on a wicker bed, sticks briars and bur.
For comfort we lay padded skins with fur. It is the best that we can do for her.
Dreaming of future days she weakens, her head full of visions of future dread.

Her malady’s strange the knowing one cries,
perhaps old age or those visions that lie.
She talks of our brethren in future years
as she sees them thrive but later in tears.
They swell the land, it has driven her on,
but now she sees visions that prove her wrong.
Years of destruction of cruelty and hate.
Brother killing brother, lover killing mate.
There’s no future hope, it’s all been a lie.
‘Just endless rivers running blood,’ she cries.
‘Before long the suffering land dies of shame
and the beasts and plants leading me to blame.‘ 
and my children’s, children’s, children curse
me and blacken my name.’

The Garden.
We are but few remaining, our brethren
buried along the way, marking the route 
with the mounds of the long suffering dead.
The ancient one sickened and died as though
without hope. It’s a mournful song we sing,
this lament to the departed. And was
it all worthwhile this Eden of plenty,
this lush garden of re-birth and new hope?