Is there a need to know our ancestors,
hidden deep in the psyche?
Some remnant of tribal superstition,
dead voice from another world
bringing us hope and security
and an ancient pride?

What does it benefit us
if great great uncle Jack
was a famous scientist,
or an infamous murderer,
or a noble lord, cohort of kings,
in some half forgotten history?

They lie dormant in our genes,
their characteristics reappearing
centuries on perhaps, oil painting,
photograph, morphing in our mind;
sadistic trait, immense intelligence,
fear or wish for what we’ll never have.

It may just be a hard sell,
too easy to click ancestry dot com,
fear that in this accelerating age
old footsteps fade too quickly in the mind
or that we too, when only dust remains
must keep a fire burning in the past.


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