Ancient minds found the heart of art;
meticulous with the earths raw gifts.
Hands the natural creators.
Tigris, Nile, Jordan stretched life;
veins with their vessels,
delivering an original insight;
preserving, teaching the masses to create.
Hunter gatherers left behind,
dwindling into unnoticed time.
Once cursed heathens by iron age sires;
slowly fading,
their lessons ignored.
Satellites cross the sky,
artificial moving stars,
earth shrinkers.
Talk to me from the Northern Pole,
tell me of the cold;
These equator feet find it hard to believe your words.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem