Listen,
you’ll try to get everything else right-
and by gods, you probably will;
but
if you would tell me a story,
then tell me a proper story-

one of the fire and the bone,

of the way the dust of the road
kicks up behind boots in the dry season;

tell me of scentsongs of rains on the field,
tell me of the planting and of the reaping;

tell me of where eternities sleep
beyond the edge of mountains made of thunder;

tell me of how a cold wind
fills the bellies of snapping sails;

tell me of the weaving of wave and rock,
and of the hushed embrace of the deep forest;

tell me what lies beyond;

tell me what they used to sing,
and why;

tell me of music;
wait, tell me why people dance;

tell me of love found
and lost
and found
and lost again;

tell me how he falls,
tell me how she keeps on;

tell me of long waiting,
of small courage,
of great vengeance,
of deep mercy;

tell me of the reaching horizon;

tell me how they made the map,
tell me of the thirst for new stars;

tell me of what hungers in darkness,
tell me of the death of hope;

and tell me
in the right hands
and in the right heart
what may rise from the ashes.

By gods, this world likes to hang its head and say,
“Those were the days.”

So,
do what you will with the easy parts,
but tell me a proper story.