History
does not mold
��� Until someone is told
Of bygone deeds and the doers of same;
��� Whether it be of war or peace or acts of State,
Which merit Posterity's acclaim,
��� Or some political ploy of world renown,
None of this would be ours to relate
��� Unless someone put it down.
It behoves us then to record and date
���� These things as they happen along
On paper and stone, on film and tape,
��� Else they succumb to oblivion.
Before the ranks of those who knew or heard
��� Have crossed their mortal boundaries
Preserve their lore, their authentic word
��� Or face these certain quandariest:
Whom do you ask about a thing of the past
�� When all who were there are gone?
Whom do you nudge for a memory budge
�� 'Bout a name or a place or a song?
When the words of mouth have echoed out
�� Thru the dunes of no recal,
Whom do you ask? Alas! Alas!
�� When there's no one to answer back?
|
And the history of our past
�� Must be made to endure and last
Unto each succeeding generation,
�� In prose, pagentry and song
It must be passed along
�� With ample annotation,
Lest memories fade and facts grow dimmer
�� And Posterity faces this sad dilemma:
Whom
do you ask about a thing of the past
�� When all who were there are gone?
Whom do you nudge for a memory budge
�� 'Bout a name or a place or a song?
When the words of mouth have echoed out
�� Thru the dunes of no recal,
Whom do you ask? Alas! Alas!
�� When there's no one to answer back? |
