Children of the Sun

I see the graves of my grandchildren.
The bones of the children of my children
buried in the land.
The dead bones of black
and white and brown and crimson
and golden
children of the sun.

The graves of my grandchildren call out to me.
Let nothing spoil the memory of them.
A memory I will never know.
Multitudes came before
and have come and will come after.

I who never fathered a child.
I dream their dreams.
I hear their cries in the night.
I see them
girls and boys
dying young and old.

Hair that was sometimes
a purple or an orange
or a green.
Skins tattooed blue.
Bodies pierced with silver
and gold.

Your fathers and
your mothers –
not always understanding
sometimes forgetting –
the vagaries of youth.

You will disappear
as those who have
disappeared before you.
As will those who
come after you.

Children of the sun
I worship you.