Generations past. Funny, How the pages dissolve in the damp time, And the ink washes off the writers breath: When the Dust of Ages Falls gently from our marching shoulders; To fall peacefully, As if without regrets, And Fills our treaded foot-tracks. These marks have barely time to exist. No records are left behind Beyond the dead silence of our brief memories. We walk blindly backwards, like beggars, Refusing to see what lies ahead. Our futures, behind us. Our pasts never straying our myopic sight. Not too many steps, then, Lie in the merging lines, We confuse remembrance with ignorance and still we stumble forward. Ian F. Brillembourg