Who Knows...

Who knows the names of his land now      
of when Neanderthaler roamed,      
the tracks, the trails, the beasts tracked down,      
the hills, the lakes, he knew as home,      
the fondness for the place he'd grown,      
or even how great his delight      
from hunt's return, perhaps alone,      
he sights his families fire light.      
     
We'll never know when bull or sow      
was slain for food was respect shown,      
I'd like to think, believe, somehow,      
that they had a great sacred stone      
to give the beast a-swift-death groan      
before feasting throughout their night      
telling, before the beast was prone,      
how brave it fought, with such great might.      
     
We'll never know if, with calm brow      
as all around bright insects droned,      
through glow of coals of burning boughs      
as lips sucked sweet, sweet, honeycombs      
and teeth cracked through great marrow bones      
did they ponder on the moon's pale light      
and contemplate the life they owned      
as owl's whoo whoo through their long night?