She wonders, impervious to static ideals
Holds nimbly a branch, a stone, a quill
Exploring lingering doubt
And comes to understand
That, within the recess of her brow
Lay times that ought be entrenched in now
And seen by the eyes of tomorrow
For, as the fire’s light grows dim
Her mind swirls with question
And, as thought or act had been
Portrayed by movement, by feral sound
The hands carve unto Earth
A precious message
And that message shall be read
And more written
Time drifts forward
Sound is recorded
Memories remain unscathed
And steadily, slowly
A race progresses
A small girl reads the old
Musty papers of an ancient text
And travels through imagination
Aspired wills
And now preserves the then
Though may her bones be lost,
Her spirit thrives in words
She is not who invented,
But the struggles of the ones
Who sought to achieve
She is
Thought.