Artifacts And Satellites Poem by Anthony Dawson

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.