In Zu, the wanderers, who had no houses yet, who lived among the stars and trees,

gathered round fires to eat their fruit and seeds at Mothers knee and told their oral histories.

Memories of mine and theirs and time distorts the tales so pictures made they to endure

but meanings lost as careless child is watching dripping fat of meat and mouth is watering at the food to eat.

Within the ring of warmth and fire the wild beast fears, the stories fall distorted on deaf ears.