April 29: Lascaux

Lascaux

He almost certainly had a name.

We can't say for sure.

we can't even say for sure that he was a he, 

but I will, for the sake of imagination.

In my mind, he is a not a good hunter,

but a great teller of tales of the hunt.

By night, he stands at the fire,

rhapsodizing about aurochs and horses and leaping deer.

Perhaps he is called Tale-spinner or Story-Keeper.

By day, he is left behind, 

while the fleet footed hunters go after the herds.

Perhaps his foot was injured when he was a child,

and they call him Drag-foot or Thud,

and he smiles and pretends that it's fine.

They see him, and didn't leave him to die, after all.

They haven't turned his skull into cup.

They must value him, he thinks, as he goes into the caves.

His bright blue eyes blaze from his dark face,

at least until the shadows claim him,

as he descends into he place that is his,

and has been his ancestors',

and will be his descendants, 

should he be allowed to have them.

In this place, he is holy, 

and perhaps he is called Oracle or shaman.

But the work is hard,

the way is impossible,

the scaffolding built to hold his twisted foot.

And when the hunters come back,

their hands dipped in blood,

his hands have been dipped in many colors,

and maybe he is called Bluefinger

or Yellow-hand.

They will come to his caves later,

to worship, to commune,

but he is just a painter.

He is no one.

Their work will feed the tribe.

Who will his work feed?