The Tales - A Poem

1.
In a dark and brooding night,
Of endless sighs and scorching gales,
The shaman sat in the fire light
And told the ancient tales.

Across his veined and furrowed face
The fire-light danced in glee,
As in a hushed but forceful voice
The shaman spoke to me:

He told the tale of the lion’s paw,
How the trees had earned their fruit,
The story of the hippo’s gaping maw
And the monkey’s magic root;

How the gods began the world,
How Life was cheated by Death,
Why every living thing must die
And breathe a final breath.

He told the tales as he had heard them
From his master long ago,
He repeated every word of them
By the fires fading glow,

I sat and listened to the tales
And remembered every word
So in my turn I could repeat them
Just as I had heard.

When all the tales were done and said
The shaman lay down and died.
I sang the keening song of the dead
And softly cried.

I am the keeper of the stories now,
The wise man of our tribe.
My eyes grow weak, my spirit fails
But the stories cannot die.

Part 2 of this poem was sadly lost when my computer was stolen 3 years ago. So far, I haven't felt able to replace it.