The spirit of mists who dwells in our forests
Or the hideous ghost of the moon-less nights
Who fishes our rivers with his long legs astride.
Neither shall they know of the time
When the soul of a dead man rises
From the grave to say
his unsaid words
In voices of wild
birds or animals;
Nor of the hidden messages of our dreams
About impending sorrow and happiness
Or those of eerie hoots of owls
And dogs’ agonizing howls.
They shall not see the beauty in our beads,
The woven cane anklets of our women
And jade-azure tattoos on their chins
Or know the worth of our
swords of antiquity;
They shall not hear from their grannies our lore
Of a dog who, for his master, saved the rice seeds
In its ears as they
flee the land torn apart by rats
To a far-off land for a new beginning.
They know not of the personification
Of our foremost ancestor, who lives on
Where the heaven and earth meet,
Curiously watching his progenies grow.
They shall
not know of our priests’ lyrical words
Those treasure our ancestors’ journeys from land
Beyond the of
Himalayas through the passes
Or their effects on the
princes of darkness.
And they know not of the unseen power
Of ginger-charms to
repel evil spirits
Or the myriad of herbs in our wilderness
Which have cures for physical ailments.
They shall not reach the depth of our culture,
Beliefs or sense the soul of our festivals,
Rituals and taste of our millet and rice wines
Or feel the warmth of our village hearths.
They who are not born of our ancestors’ blood
And our people, who are drunk with pretensions,
Know nothing of us-- the dwellers of the misty hills,
Born of one and only father--Abo Tani.
---Dahey
Sangno ( 1/8/2013)
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