Descending once in sub-
Terranean gloom you notice:
Cold and heat and tall points
Of stone that reach up to
A sky, never seen. Such
Darkness here. Rocks that creep
With moss. Tepid puddles of
Water in distant corners. Then
I imagine a torch in hand, fingers
That grope knowingly across
Rough walls. To a spot to a
Place where chatter is heard and
The stillness of tomb-like quiet.
Hearts beating you can hear
Hearts beating here.
Then you look up and see an
Old man I think with his
Frail hands against the wall. The
Torch lights it up as
Bright colors blow from hollow tubes –
Red. Deep reds that
Emblazon the rock, leaving a shadow
Of a hand that reaches out to us
From across time, from
The mist and madness
Of ceaseless centuries.
Note: At the caves in Altamira, Spain,
Prehistoric hands appear on the walls.
Signatures from the past.