Ages

We look back at ages long gone to dust
With wonder at the many myths
Those people swallowed so easily
Taking colorful tales as passed down truth.

Fanciful words sung to the tune of
Sweet lute pluckings by a stranger
Newly come over the high mountains
Taken as true as the color of a mother’s eyes.

A boy comes down from a Summer
Herding sheep in the far pastures
His wild stories born of months’ loneliness
Take illegitimate place next to mother’s truth.

Stories first crafted to gender delight
Generations before eventually morph
With only the magic and power of time
Taken as forefathers’ delivered, preserved truth.

Still today, beyond all science and ken,
Such illogical stories, tales and fancies–
Only for their age and none else–are
Taken by the masses as gospel truth.