It is said that
once,
we had
myths
we lived by.

One myth told of a rock
that shone in the dark
as if it held a star.

All wished to see this
but it was thought
that to view that stone
was to die.

But one night,
back when we lived in camps,
a young girl found it
and took it home
for all the tribe to see.

Its glow,
a wine on which
they grew drunk,
raised them all to joy.
They danced, they fell down,
they were spent.

While they slept,
a thief came and took the stone.

At dawn the tribe rose,
still drunk a bit
on stone wine and shine of myth,
and in rage and grief
surged out from camp to find
and kill that thief,
take back the glow
and the source of the glow;

but he was not found.
We seek him still.

In such small words as these
we tell all our truth:
if the girl
had not found the stone
we would not have known
joy, if the thief
had not seized the stone
we would not have known grief.

We still blame the girl
and kill her each time the dark falls.