So Old Poem by Kevin Maroney

History, like a rotten egg, tills the endless fields,
it smells to high heaven, back inwards it is reeled,
For truly forever do the rivers run,
and back towards their source, as the rising sun.

Death is new, and yet so old,
it seems so strange for us to be so bold,
When like a calf we balk at wolves,
Though wolves we've slain, broken countless 'rules'

Our culture lies in myth and legend,
traditions born of a moment's villein and,
though so new they're now so old,
and yet we still don't act quite so bold.

To death and strife we cast but an observant eye,
while in culture, tradition, we take to the sky.