Lascaux Cave Art

Babel I thumb my dictionary like the rosetta stone to translate the heiroglyphics of your simple poem but an ankh and painted eye are all I see. We speak our own languages, isolate tongues; from the tower we were driven into our own lands: population one. We crossed deserts, the scrub of a thousand hills, speaking with our hands, shaking our heads, making marks with sticks. Our torches move in semaphor over the scratchings in these ancient caves. Count ten thousand years: the bow, the deer-- our splintered voice. Teresa White Back to the Astrophysicist's Tango Partner Speaks