Who knows the names of his land now
of when Neanderthaler roamed,
the track, the trails  the beasts tracked down,
the valleys, forests, he called home
the fondness for the place he'd grown,
or even how great his delight
from hunt's return, perhaps alone
he sights his families fire light.

We'll never know when Deer or Sow
was slain for food was respect shown,
I'd like to think, to believe, somehow
that they had a great sacred stone,
to give the beast a swift death groan,
before feasting throughout the night
telling, before the beast fell prone,
how brave it fought, with such great might.

We'll never know if, with calm brow,
as all around, dark insects droned,
through glow of coals from burning boughs
as lips ****** sweet, sweet, honeycombs,
or cracked and snacked on marrow bones,
did they ponder the moon's pale light,
and contemplate the life they owned
as owls whoo, whoo, through their long night.